Brought To Justice
by DictionaryWrites
Summary: Odin gives Loki a choice when he is brought back to Asgard: imprisonment, or execution. When Loki chooses the latter, Odin increases his punishment twofold, and Loki is sent back to Midgard in order to repay his debt. Bound by his own magic and forced to obey whatever order Steve Rogers lays out for him, Loki is forced to attempt a redemption he neither wants nor deserves.
1. Brought To Justice 1

Tony watches from the balcony, his arms pressed against the balcony's side, at the ritual being conducted in the atrium of Stark Tower – and it is a ritual, that much is for certain. Loki, still sporting his injuries from facing up with the Hulk, is kneeling on the hard tile, his hands behind his back, his head bowed, and Odin Allfather is speaking in a high, lofty language Tony couldn't hope to understand. Magic is visible on the air itself, smelling like the air after a thunderstorm, and he sees blue strings of energy curling between Loki and Cap, who stands uncomfortably in front of him.

Rogers is standing in a military pose, his shoulders squared, his arms at his side, but Tony can see his eyes reflect a discomfort at precisely what is happening – Odin had made it all too clear. "It is your choice entirely," he had said airily to the group of them gathered, his voice full of faux-sympathy: Thor had stood behind him, his jaw set, his fists clenched at his side. "We shall either execute Loki… Or I will make him harmless to you, and he can help you _save_ lives, instead of taking them."

"You want to put the onus on us, huh?" Clint had spoken up, still visibly exhausted, his eyes puffy and red, his lips chapped. "You want it to be _our choice_ ," he had used his fingers to quote in the air, "if you kill your son."

"He isn't my son," Odin had said, damningly, and Tony had seen the way Loki flinched in his bonds. Rogers had seen too: maybe that's why he'd agreed to it.

Odin finishes with a flourish of magic that bursts upon the air, and Loki remains in his spot, silent, unmoving. Tony could believe he was a statue if it weren't for the way his hair hung down around his face, if it weren't for the way he could see his shoulders marginally rising and falling as Loki took deep breaths. What, is he _scared_? What the Hell does he have to be afraid of?

"Now what?" Rogers asks, his voice professional – just like his posture, it has that military edge to it, and Odin seems to respect that.

"He's yours, now," Odin says mildly. "He cannot harm you. If you order something, his very own magic will have him obey." A shadow passes over Roger's face, a plain discomfort, and he looks down at Loki.

"Stand up," he says, and slowly, Loki rises. Tony hadn't really seen it before, when he'd been half-crazed with the Chitauri and burning with the power of the Tesseract, but Loki has a quiet grace to his movements even Thor doesn't really have. There's something liquid about it, something extra – he's only really seen that kind of smooth stand in _cats_ , not in people. Rogers doesn't look happy to be obeyed. "You have to tell the truth if I ask you?"

"If you order me to tell only the truth now," Loki says, quietly. Something passes between him and Rogers, a flickering light that passes between their eyes, and Loki adds, "You might, of course, renege that order, if you found it wasn't to your liking. I doubt that it would be." Loki's voice carries up to the balconies, and Tony glances at the others. Bruce is stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his glasses low on his nose; Clint and Nat are stood together, both of them visibly disgusted, and Thor… Thor is down there, behind his father. Tony can't see his face.

"We've been honoured to receive you, sir," Rogers says, and he barks out the last word as he looks to Odin: Tony half-expects him to salute, but he doesn't. "With me," Rogers orders, and as he marches into the main part of Stark Tower, Loki follows him, his hands still behind his back. If Odin was expecting a "thank you", he doesn't show it: instead, he gestures for Thor to follow him, and the both of them leave through the wide, double doors.

"Come on," Nat says, and the rest of them make their way off the balcony, so they can see precisely what is gonna happen now.

"So, what do we _do_ with him?" Nat asks. They're down in the training hall, where the walls are insulated and the least amount of noise will carry to the rest of the building. Tony guesses it's so Cap can weigh up what kind of skills Loki has, but Loki doesn't seem worried at all: he's sitting on the air itself, gently buffing his nails with a smooth, unfamiliar instrument.

"Whatever you please," Loki says, and she looks at him, impassively.

"Shut up," she says.

"My apologies, Ms Romanov, it seems you've misunderstood the terms of this arrangement. I'm certain Captain Rogers will allow you to give me orders, once he's certain you won't use the privilege to _murder_ me." Rogers turns, looking at Loki. All of them are looking at Loki now, and his pale face shows the barest amount of surprise. He looks between each of them, and then his eyes meet Tony's, his blue eyes staring.

"Surely you _knew_?" he asks. "Anything you order of me, I am bound to do. You think that stops at harming myself? Killing myself, even? So long as your orders come within the realm of Midgard, I must do as I am bid."

"What if I tell you that you that don't have to obey what I tell you?" Rogers asks, and Loki barks out a laugh. It's an angry, savage thing, showing all of his teeth, and his eyes look impenetrably deep for the barest second, a thrum of power radiating away from him like a pulse, and Tony feels himself, unconsciously, take a step back – and sees the others do the same, except Cap himself.

"Are you certain you want to risk that, Captain Rogers?" Loki asks, arching a fine eyebrow. His tone is slippery, steaming with venom, as he adds, "After all I've just done?"

"I didn't think it was going to be _slavery!_ " Rogers snaps, and Loki chuckles, shaking his head slowly.

"A moral question for any young student of philosophy," Loki says archly, and he stands up from his invisible seat, vanishing his nail buff into the ether around them. He speaks with his shoulders back, his chin high, and he gestures widely with his hands. His every movement is quietly theatrical, as if he is used to lecturing on this subject, as if he has practised this before. "The question as is as follows: the man in your possession is a slave. He shall obey your orders, gladly, and promptly. You yourself, of course, cannot abide by taking away the liberty of another fellow – but if you set him free, he shall surely die, or worse, be taken up by someone who might treat him cruelly. Do you keep him, or do you set him free?"

"Shut your mouth," Rogers orders, crisply, and Loki's mouth shuts with an audible click. There's a bitter taste in the back of Tony's throat, and he watches the way Rogers' brow furrows, watches the way his lips twist. "I didn't mean that. Talk as much as you want."

"In accepting the Allfather's terms, you have made yourself responsible for me. The very reason he has bound my magic in this way is so that I cannot be held accountable for any actions I perform: I am _your_ charge, Captain Rogers, and subsequently he has removed any connection from me to him, or myself to the throne of Asgard. Cunning, isn't it?" He sets his hands behind his back, his lips pressing together for a moment, and then he says, "If I might make a recommendation, I would suggest the true meaning of this arrangement be held back from the general public. It will sour the name of Captain America, or indeed, of any of you, to think you have entered into an agreement the people of Earth at large will find to be archaic. Tell the peoples of Earth that I was somehow under the psychological control of the Chitauri: pretend I have entered this arrangement to pay back the debt I feel I owe to this society."

"Why should we believe you?" Bruce asks, his hands in his pockets, but he seems neither scared nor angry, really – just quietly curious, scientific mind working underneath that thick hair of his. Loki sighs.

"One makes the best of an ill situation, Doctor Banner." Why the Hell is he _talking_ like that? Tony can't quite get the hang of it – he and Loki had almost been on a level when the two of them had been talking upstairs just a day or so ago, and now everything Loki says is stiff and starched at the edges, as if he's speaking as an ambassador to some foreign court. Is it part of the magic?

"What?" Clint asks, taking a few steps forward, until he is directly in Loki's face, until he is looking up into Loki's eyes. Loki can see that he's shaking, sees that his face is red, but Clint doesn't seem to give a shit how scared he is. "What, you think this is the _best_ that could have happened, huh?"

"By no means, Mr Barton," Loki whispers, and he leans in closer: his lips move, but no sound comes out. Barton's eyes widen as he reads whatever Loki had said on his lips, and then takes a step back.

"What did he say?" Cap asks, but Barton is already leaving the room, heading toward the stairs and rushing up them: Nat follows him, but not without shooting a venomous stare in Loki's direction. "What did you say to him? Tell me."

"I said the best of this situation would have been if the Allfather had me executed, as per my request," Loki says. The room is utterly silent now, the four of them standing in the quiet, unmoving. After a few long seconds pass, Loki says, "Of course, Captain Rogers, you might pass me onto SHIELD as an asset, if you would prefer. You cannot shift the connection the Allfather has fostered between us, but you could order me to obey the commands of the SHIELD officers, scientists. Do you trust your organisation, I wonder, with me?"

"Stop trying to turn this into a philosophy class," Rogers says quietly. "I'm not gonna feel guilty for saving your life."

"You're more like Thor than I expected," Loki replies in a soft voice. "Foolish, and sentimental." Rogers lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head: if Loki meant for that to hurt, he doesn't seem to have landed the blow.

"If you think you can bait me into hurting you, your highness, you're damn wrong," Rogers says. Looking between Bruce and Tony, Rogers gives a wave of his hand, and says, "You guys head upstairs. Work on the rebuild. Me and Loki are gonna stay right here." Bruce seems glad for the excuse to leave, and he heads toward the stairs, but Tony reaches out, touching Steve's arm.

"You sure you wanna be down here alone with him?"

"Get Pepper to call Nick Fury," Steve says quietly. "I didn't exactly get SHIELD approval for this one, and that's probably for the best. He's right. I don't trust him in SHIELD's hands – I wish I could. Can we put him in a room here in Stark Tower?"

"Sure," Tony says. "If that's what you want. You trust him?"

"Hell no," Rogers says, shaking his head. "But I don't need to. Thanks, Stark."

"No problem, Cap," Tony replies, and he heads out. It's… Weird. The whole thing is weird. But what else are they meant to do?

Loki stands with his hands behind his back, his back straight, his soles flat against the soft matting that makes up this training hall's floor. From a very young age, Loki has been used to many different training grounds, most of them using some sort of mix of sand and saw dust to soften the ground, but these mats seem soft enough to allow for an easy landing, and the Midgardians seem so intent on covering everything in plastic.

Captain Rogers is watching him. It doesn't matter that he's a hundred years older than his fellows – he has spent those extra years unconscious, and they add nothing to him. Even if they did, what is a hundred years? Loki is nearing his third millennium, now, and not a single person on Midgard could compare to him.

"The magic tricks," Rogers begins. "Sitting on the air, pulling stuff out of nowhere. You weren't doing that when you had the sceptre in your hands." Loki frowns.

"I didn't need to," he begins, but Rogers holds up a flat palm for him to stop, and Loki does.

"You _couldn't_. Tell me why."

"The sceptre drained all manner of energy in its vicinity," Loki murmurs. He dislikes to be forced into honesty like this, but he feels his magic bubbling in his veins, feel it _force_ him to speak with honesty. "Mine included. It would have come back to me after a time."

"Uh huh," Rogers says, as if he doesn't believe Loki, as if Loki doesn't know what he's talking about, but there is a pit in Loki's stomach, and he chooses not to engage with it. "You really wish you were dead?"

"Not exactly," Loki answers. "The Allfather offered me a choice between imprisonment beneath the city of Asgard, alone, or death. I chose the latter." Rogers's frown draws at his lips, turning them downward.

"Then Thor stepped in?" Loki inclines his head.

"He didn't want to see me die. Suggested that if they imprisoned me under Asgard, it'd only be a matter of time before I broke out again – he was trying to appear to the Allfather's sense of logic, and cunning, but rather quickly, and with little forethought. It was hardly his fault: he was upset at the thought of seeing me lose my head. Scrambling for an idea, he suggested the Allfather bind me, using my own magic, to Thor's hand."

"And Odin said he didn't want you roaming around Asgard?" Rogers asks, and Loki nods his head once more. The young captain is, Loki is uncomfortable to realise, much more perceptive than Loki had initially realised – even with the clean, methodical lines of Clint Barton's thoughts beneath his own, he had underestimated each of the Avengers. Is it not fitting that this should be his downfall? "What I need to do know is if you're gonna try to kill yourself at the first opportunity. 'Cause that puts other people at risk – other people I have to care about."

"Why not just order me not to?" Loki asks, and Rogers sighs.

"Can't order you not to risk yourself. What if I need you to, later on? I just need to know that you're not gonna jump into self-sacrifice when there are other options available. Suicidal soldiers are no good to anybody."

"Is that what your _Avengers_ are to you? Soldiers under your command?" Loki asks, and Rogers' lips twitch into a wan, unfeeling smile. What must it be like for him, Loki wonders? Such a bright-eyed young man so _intent_ on saving others, and here Loki is, a spanner in those particular works: Rogers ought despise him, by all rights, and yet he seems to be doing his best to be near _civil_ to Loki.

"Let's talk about what you can do," Rogers says. "Illusions?"

"Yes," Loki nods. Rogers looks at him expectantly, but Loki doesn't say anything more, and Rogers sighs, shaking his head, before continuing.

"And your magic… What's the limit of that? What kind of stuff can you do? Tell me." He's learning quickly, Loki thinks, and he cannot help the way his lip curls.

"Shifting the shape of my own form requires time and energy, but I can become much smaller and much larger than myself with relative ease. I can form various shapes, including seemingly inanimate objects and non-sentient beasts. For conjuration, I can quite easily conjure inanimate objects as large as, say, a dining table. I can also summon objects, either from pocket dimensions or another location, so long as I know where that location is precisely, ideally having been there. I can speed the growth of living thing, and I can heal most bodily wounds, so long as I have a deeper understanding of the thing's anatomy. I can do minor divination, use magic to interbreed strange plants. I can Skywalk, which is rather like a more dignified form of flight – I can walk or run upon the air, and travel freely with seiðr as the source of fuel, I—"

"Stop." Rogers is looking at Loki with his eyes slightly wide, his lips pursed, and then he says, "Ground rules. You _never_ lie to me – and I mean _never_ , Loki. You don't lie by omission, you don't try to squirrel out from a question I'm asking you, and if anything important happens, if you notice anything weird or anything that creeps you out, you tell me."

"Creeps me out?" Loki repeats, mockingly, and Rogers grabs him by the front of his jerkin, setting his jaw as he meets Loki's stare, his eyes intent.

" _Anything_ makes you uncomfortable, anyone treats you badly, anyone orders you to do something that you think _I'll_ think is wrong, you fucking tell me."

"You use profanity," Loki murmurs, his lip twitching. "I didn't know that."

"I'm a soldier, Loki. You ever meet a soldier that didn't curse?"

"Soldiers don't usually get the chance to say a word to me," Loki replies, his smile showing his teeth, but Rogers is unshakable. He releases his grip on Loki's armour, and then he puts his hands on his hips, looking Loki up and down.

"For now, take orders just from me. You don't have to do anything anyone else says, but as a rule, don't manipulate people, don't try to set them up to fight each other, and stop saying stuff _just_ to make people uncomfortable. Do not hurt anybody. Do not engender a situation in which you _technically_ are not the person hurting them, but they become hurt as a result of the situation you made. Do not tell anybody who doesn't already know the ins and outs of this situation, and do not tell anybody who doesn't know that the magic your father used binds you to me. Next, be _healthy_. Don't try to starve yourself, or stop yourself from sleeping, or anything like that. You're not meant to be hanging off my word, so unless I've told you to do something, just live your life."

"Very comprehensive," Loki murmurs. Every order seeps into his skin like poison into groundwater, and he clenches his hands into fists at his sides, turning his head away from Rogers so that he doesn't have to look at the soldier's face. To think: he has come from the binds of the Chitauri to _this_. "What will you have of me?" The bitterness of the question sounds through, but Rogers doesn't seem to care.

"I don't know yet," he admits. "We obviously don't want you in the field if we can help it – people will try to attack you, will think you're there to hurt them. Probably keep you on hand as a healer. You know much about technology?"

"Asgard is much more advanced than Midgard," Loki points out, but Rogers raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I can drive a Buick, but it doesn't mean I can take the engine apart and put it back together." A Buick is some sort of automobile, Loki imagines, and he doesn't appreciate the hardness of the other man's stare.

"I take your meaning." Loki hesitates, then says, "In short, yes. Magic requires a lot of mechanical comprehension – without understanding something, I cannot repair it if I need to. I understand the facets of electronic and engineering invention, and I would consider myself a passable engineer."

"How old are you?" Rogers asks.

"Exactly?" Loki asks. "I don't know."

"I told you not to avoid questions," Rogers says lowly, his eyes dark, and Loki feels his magic pull hard at his heart, and he sighs, _frustrated_ , and angry, and trapped, as an animal in a corner.

"I'm some years past my third millennia." Rogers' eyes become marginally wider, but he schools his expression carefully, ensuring his surprise doesn't show too obviously.

"So when you say you've got skills, you've had time to accumulate them." Rogers presses his lips together, looking Loki up and down, as if searching out clues to other skills Loki might have under his belt, as if searching for the evidence on Loki's very form. There is none. Loki is not used to wearing his abilities on his sleeve. "Jesus," he mutters, and Loki frowns.

"What?"

"You and Thor, you just look… You look young."

"We are," Loki says. "By the standards of our own species, we're very young indeed. Well—" The magic drags at him, makes him _choke_ with its heat, and he spits out, "Thor is." Rogers's blond brow furrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

" _Nothing_ , it—" Loki lets out a sound of pain as he feels his magic bubble like so much venom in his throat, forcing its way out into his mouth and strong-arming his tongue into speech. "Thor and I are not the same species. I'm not an Æsir, as he is. I'm a Jötunn."

"He mentioned you were adopted."

" _Adopted_?" Loki repeats, surprised by the harshness of his own voice, and he clenches his fists at his sides, feeling magic bubble in his veins, but not, this time, against his own volition – _adopted!_ What a word to use! "Of course he would call it that." Rogers opens his mouth, evidently planning to ask another question, but there are footsteps in the stairwell, and Loki looks to see the one-eyed Nick Fury striding into the room, flanked by two young soldiers.

"You're not taking him," Steve says, lazily, for the fifth time. Fury is pacing before him, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders high – you can tell he used to be a soldier of sorts himself, before he was a commander. There's something in the attitude that never goes away. Steve leans upon the island in the centre of the corner kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. This kitchen is an anteroom off the main training hall, like the changing rooms and the showers, but this room is mercifully clean, and isn't heavy with the scent of sweat.

"You're telling me this guy has just killed a few hundred people, and you're adopting him?" Fury demands, his voice harsh: he's a skilled manipulator, Steve will give him that, but Steve doesn't need to remember the Cold War to know that isn't the way he plays. As soon as Fury had entered the room, he'd ordered Loki to go and find Tony, and reluctantly the god had gone up the stairs, pursued by Fury's two lieutenants.

"He's been entrusted to the Avengers. Last I checked, Nick, you aren't an Avenger."

" _Entrusted_?"

"He's bound by his own magic. He's one of us now."

"He just killed half a thousand people!" Fury snaps, his voice raising and bouncing off the thin walls, but Steve just stares at him.

"He's gonna pay it back," Steve replies, his tone calculatedly even. "Better than he would, what? Spread out on a lab table so SHIELD can take him apart and see how he works?" Fury's single eye narrows slightly, and he can see the twitch of muscles underneath Fury's skin as he shifts the set of his jaw. "He's not an _asset_ , Nick. He's a person, and he's gonna do some community service and pay back his debt. I don't trust him any more than you do, but he literally _can't_ lie his way out of this one."

"He ain't a person, Steve. You not thinking of Coulson? What about—"

"We're going in circles, Nick. I've told you what's happening: this is how it's happening." Fury's lip curls slightly, but he seems to realise he can't use Steve as a tool, can't push him around. Steve thinks of the weapons they'd seen up on the ship…

Yeah. Fury isn't at the top of his _to-be-trusted_ list right about now.

"Let's go upstairs," Steve suggests, sipping at his coffee and setting the mug in the sink. "I'll walk you to the door." But Fury is already walking away from him, his squared shoulders showing his _irritation_ , and Steve smiles, sourly.

Loki lies on his back on the cot to the side of the room. It is a small bedroom, holding only this single bed, a small desk and chair in the corner, and a bathroom that takes up a corner of the bedroom's box space, holding a toilet and shower. These rooms are intended for the short term, Stark had told him, for those that just need somewhere to stay overnight if they need to be on hand.

This tiny space is the box they'll put him in, when his services are not required.

Loki stares up at the bare, white-painted ceiling, his lips pressed loosely together, his hands loosely clasped over his belly. He feels like a corpse on a ritual slab – and isn't that right? Isn't that _fair_? Isn't this what Odin wanted, when he saw that Loki would choose death over imprisonment, and wanted something worse than both?

And what better punishment for betrayal than to turn Loki's most _loyal_ friend against him – his very magic?

A knock sounds at the door. Loki's eyes flit toward it, staring at the dark wood and waiting for someone to step through. There is a long pause, and then there is another knock upon the wood, polite, and short. Frowning, Loki stands from the bed, comes to the door, and opens it.

Here stands Tony Stark, forced to look up a little to meet Loki's gaze, and he peers past Loki into the bare room. "You've been in here for an hour," he says. "When I said _make yourself at home_ , I kinda meant… Do whatever you want with it. What, you can magic stuff up, but not paint and different bed sheets?" Loki says nothing, and merely stares down at the other man, his gaze impassive. "Uh huh… Anyway, come with me. We're gonna have something to eat."

Loki steps out of the room, closing the door behind him, and he sees that the door is not the same as it was when he first stepped inside: somebody, likely Stark, has pained _Loki_ on the wood in curling, painted letters. Loki feels a nausea deep in his belly, and he follows Stark down the corridor, toward the primary dining hall.

There is an unfamiliar man, tall and handsome ( _another soldier_ , Loki knows at a glance), dominating the large kitchen in the corner of the dining room, and he is working with ease at the stove, searing the meat of some of those… _Ugh_. What the Midgardians call burgers, made of the heavily processed meat America seem so fond of. The very scent of the stuff is heavy in Loki's sensitive nose, and when Tony says, "You want a glass of water?", Loki nods his head a little more fervently than he had wanted. He takes a sip, and he looks to the dining table, watching the Avengers. Rogers is already sat down, talking seriously to a red-headed woman that Loki doesn't recognize, and Romanov and Barton work swiftly, setting out plates at every place setting as Banner sets out knives and forks and napkins. The entire situation is unnervingly domestic, and yet no one glares in Loki's direction or snaps at him. They act as if they've done this a thousand times before, and yet Loki knows they've only just been thrown together, that they are all as yet strangers.

"Sit down next to Steve," Stark murmurs, and Loki, seeing no other real _option_ , takes a seat beside Steve. He and the red-headed woman are discussing a renovation of Stark Tower, making it into a space for the Avengers instead, and Loki stares at his empty plate. Soon enough, everybody is sitting down: Stark sits beside Loki, the handsome cook beside the red-headed woman, and then the others take the remaining seats. They pass plates around the table, allowing everybody to serve themselves, and Loki takes a modest amount of a salad Banner had thrown together, passing the plate of _burgers_ immediately onto Stark when Rogers hands the plate to him.

Conversation occurs around him, and Loki eats in silence. He is hyperaware of what he must look like, still in his leathers, his straight back, his poise princely, but no one comments, and everybody _ignores him_ , mercifully. Loki has never been so glad not to be noticed before. The salad is palatable enough, the vinaigrette strong and settling acid-heavy on his tongue, and it is plain that Stark orders in high-end stock – what the Midgardians call _organic,_ ridiculous phrasing – because Loki cannot taste the tang of pesticides in the crisp, green leaves or in the softness of the tomato.

"So, Loki," the handsome man says, and Loki looks across the table to him, doing his best to keep his expression entirely neutral. "You don't eat meat?" Loki looks from the handsome man's dark, brown eyes to the platter of burgers in the centre of the table, dressed with relish, a few of them topped with American cheese or slices of bacon cured in some sort of syrup.

"Uh—" Loki isn't entirely certain how to respond: he cannot lie, his magic reminds him, and he dislikes the idea of telling the entire truth. "I… Do."

"Just my cooking you don't like?"

"He won't eat processed food," comes Barton's voice from down the table, and Loki both rejoices at the interruption and reviles it: everyone is silent now, and Loki feels embarrassment blossom in his chest – of course, Barton knows things about him that those gathered here do not, and all of them are _staring_ at him, now, with various expressions of repulsed curiosity. "Won't eat American meat, won't eat American cheese. Won't eat candy or fast food."

"But apparently mass murder is just fine," Romanov says dryly, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Interesting." Loki wonders why Rogers had refused Fury, wonders why he hadn't just allowed Fury to _take him_ – none of these people want Loki here, and Loki should prefer plain torture and pain over this sort of social _awkwardness_.

Banner takes the bowl of salad in front of him, and passes it to Tony, who passes it to Loki: taking the silent instruction, Loki serves himself a little more of it, and murmurs, "My thanks." The handsome man is watching him, his chin on his hand.

"You haven't got food like this where you come from, huh?" he asks.

"No. The city of Asgard is served by wide orchards, possessing a great many fruits and fast-growing vegetables and roots, each of them imbued by their own magics. Meat is farmed on a very small scale, and the majority of our domesticated animals are goats and hardy cows, a few egg-laying fowl. Most of the meat we consume is that which we have hunted ourselves." Loki looks away from the man's staring eyes to his plate, taking small bites.

"Thor likes Earth food just fine," Stark points out, mildly. "You always been a fussy eater?"

"No: Thor is merely an indiscriminate one." Stark laughs, patting Loki's shoulder, but the rest of the table is entirely silent, and Loki wishes he had held his tongue. "You have cooked a most admirable meal for a large table," Loki says quietly, meeting the handsome man's searching eyes once again. "Please, do not take my… _Fussiness_ for ingratitude."

"I won't," he says. "It's just that in the army, you learn to eat what you're given." Loki chuckles, quietly, and he wipes his lip on a napkin.

"A lesson that was never imparted to me, I fear, and likely never will be. My own children once complained of my palate." Banner leans forward, looking around Stark, and his dark eyes land on Loki, his eyebrows raised, his wide eyes.

"You've got kids?" Loki frowns, looking around the table at large: once again, silence reigns, and everyone looks at him with a sort of dawning horror. A lie comes to his tongue, but immediately evaporates into the ether, and so Loki gives the smallest shake of his head.

"Not anymore," he murmurs.

"You've been married, then?" Rogers asks, and Loki gives a nod of his head.

"Twice," he says. Rogers' gaze flits downward, looking for a ring on Loki's fingers, but Loki has never worn rings, and likely never will. Rogers keeps looking at him, silently urging him to continue, and Loki says, "My first wife died some time ago. My second wife and I are—" How best to phrase it, that these puny aliens might understand, might _comprehend_? "Estranged."

"Big surprise there," Romanov says, and Loki gives a light shrug of his shoulders, his palms to the ceiling.

"Few marriages survive the deaths of one's children," Loki says simply. "Even in cultures far across the stars, this fact remains the same." Romanov's expression changes, and Loki knows that this isn't the act he experienced from within the confines of his cell: that slight change in the marble features of her pretty face is _entirely real_ , and Loki feels a bitter triumph at having engendered it.

"What were they called? Your children?" asks the red-headed woman, her voice quiet. Surely, she cannot be giving into _sympathy_? Foolish, these mortals are – their hearts are so easily swayed.

"Narfi and Valí," Loki answers. "Borne of the lady Sigyn."

"What about your first wife?" Stark asks, and the curiosity on his face shows with another, more complex cocktail of emotions: it unnerves Loki, to be at a dinner table with so little ability to lie, to shake off questions. Never has he felt so very exposed, so forced into this horrific veracity.

Truth is not in his nature, but then, nor is servitude.

"Angrboða," Loki says. "She was a Jötunn, like myself. We had three children together: Hel, Jormungandr, and Fenrisúlfr. We lived together on an island I had built on the edge of the great Jut sea, apart from the political quagmire of Jötunheimr, and a world away from the courtly graces of Asgard. Our children were wild things, half child and half monster, roaming in the waves, laughing on the sands. There was the great wolf, Fenrisúlfr, with white teeth and strong jaws, running with his four great paws pounding the earth beneath him, and in the shadows he would go unseen, for he sported fur of blackest night. Then Jormungandr, the snake, a great curve of sliding scales and coiling muscle, with eyes of agate, and _Hel_ … She was the image of myself and her mother alike: her hair fell about her head in shining black tresses, her skin was a blue-tinged white that seemed to have been made of moonlight itself, and she walked on two feet, like the princess she was."

"What happened to them?" asks the red-headed woman, and from her downturned lips, her sad eyes, he sees that she has already grasped some of the truth to come, simply from the reminiscence in Loki's tone. She asks the question, knowing the answer will be sad, and for that, he finds a sort of respect for her.

"The soothsayers said that the children of Loki would bring about Ragnarök – that is to say, the end of the realm of Asgard. The _twilight_ of the gods. I was away at the time, walking the lands of Jötunheimr as I hunted a great deer – when I returned home with its weight upon my shoulders, my children were gone, cast to the ends of the universe, and my wife lay dead in the water, her blood tainting the sea. Fenrisúlfr was locked in a crypt and bound in great chains; Jormungandr was made mad, forced to consume his own tail, and sent to the depths of the ocean, and Hel… Hel was cast into the underworld, to rule over the realm of the dead. She had yet to reach the cusp of womanhood, and yet there she was, made queen over corpses and rotted things." Loki sips at his water, feeling its coolness running over his tongue. He can taste what the Midgardians use to keep their pipes clean, hints of chemicals that prevent strange things coming out of their taps. "At least her mother was among her subjects."

Loki sets down his knife and fork, and says, "My apologies: I find myself without appetite. If I might be excused, Captain Rogers?"

"Go ahead," the Captain says, his tone unwaveringly casual, and Loki stands from the table, making his way swiftly down the corridor and hiding himself in the bathroom of his small quarters, his back against the cold tile, his head in his hands. His very heart feels as if it has been cleaved open, pumping forth its blood like the words he had spoken – the magic hadn't _forced_ him, and yet spoken he had, spoken and spoken!

How shall he be here, now, amongst these Midgardians? How shall he be a servant, indentured forever more? How shall he _be_?

This is the bed he has made for himself. How best to die in it?


	2. Brought To Justice 2

As the door closes behind Loki, Steve leans back in his seat, wiping his hands on a clean napkin and setting it aside. Nobody else at the table seems willing to move a muscle, every one of them sitting in silence, staring at their plates or at each other.

"Well," Rhodey says. "I think he's better than I expected, anyway. For a mass murderer."

"Don't know what he expects, exactly," Clint breaks in. He has been doing well, holding back the emotion he obviously feels when it comes to talking about Loki, but now his lip is quivering slightly, his eyes focused on something buried in the middle distance. "What, he expected us to all feel sorry for him?"

"I think that's exactly what he _didn't_ expect," Steve replies, and he stands from the table, picking up his empty plate and his cutlery and taking them over to the sink. No one says anything, for a few long moments, and then he hears chairs move back, hears plates being lifted off the table, as everybody begins to pack up the food. Stark comes up to Steve's shoulder, taking a plate and beginning to dry it – awkwardly, as if he's never dried a dish in his life. Steve wishes he couldn't believe that was true.

"Was he lying?" Tony asks, and Steve slowly shakes his head. Tony nods, putting the plate away and taking the fork that Steve hands to him. "What did you say to Fury? Guy looked pissed."

"I told him he couldn't take Loki," Steve says, feeling the scalding hot water purify his hands, and he scrubs a little harder at the pan in his hands, forcing the grease to come away from it. "Then I told him that a few more times, until he finally decided to believe me."

"We might not really be a team," Tony mutters, "but if we are one… I don't know. I'd tell you there's no place for him, but it seems like he's willing to fit into whatever gap he can, just so long as nobody looks at him for too long. I didn't expect him to be so…" Tony's words trail off, his head shaking slightly, and Steve passes him the pan.

"Cowed?" he suggests, and Tony winces, but then nods his head.

"Yeah." And what expectations did they have, really? Steve thinks of Peggy in her nursing bed, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, at her mouth… She'd had a husband, children, but she's so old now, nearing the end of her life. How old is Loki in the scheme of his life? He'd said he was young. How young? "You okay giving him orders?" There's a short pause between them.

"I don't play well with others, Cap, like Fury said," Tony says. "You sure you want to trust me with that?"

"I don't want to be in a position where he needs to talk about something he has issues with, but he doesn't want to talk to me. Basic chain of command – if you have an issue with something your Chief says, you need someone above you, but lower than him to talk to. I don't want this to be something…" Steve waves his hand, struggling to find the right words, and then says, "This is basically magical slavery, Tony. I want it to feel as little like what it is as possible. And I need to be accountable to someone other than him." Tony is watching him, his dark eyes heavy on Steve's face, and Steve meets his gaze. He even _looks_ like Howard, with that cropped hair, the stupid moustache and beard…

"You're right," Tony mutters, and then he pats Steve's shoulder before setting the dish towel aside. "You're a good guy, Cap. You shouldn't worry about the power going to your head or something. At the end of the day, you saved his life."

"Sure," Steve agrees, and even he hears the hollowness in his voice as he turns off the faucet. He feels Tony's gaze on his back as he heads toward Loki's room. He shakes off his hands, then he raps, hard, on the wood of Loki's door. Tony's had one of his robots paint Loki's name on the door, and Steve wonders if Loki likes that, or if it makes him feel more like an animal in a cage. There's no answer, so he pushes the door slowly open, peering inside. Loki isn't at the desk or on the cot, so he closes the bedroom door behind him and raps on the door of the small bathroom. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," comes Loki's voice from the other side of the door. He hears the soft gasp of pain, and then, "I will be." Jesus. How much does his magic actually hurt him, when he disobeys, completely by accident? _Reflexively_ , even. Imagine being punished for a reflex.

"You want to open the door?" Steve asks. A long pause passes between them.

"No," Loki answers, finally, as if realising it isn't an order.

"Okay," Steve says, and he crouches down beside the door, his back against the bathroom's outer wall, his ears close to the thin drywall. "If Tony gives you an order, take it the same as you would one from me. Even if he backtracks on something I've told you. You can come to either of us if you need something."

"Alright," Loki murmurs. Steve listens for the sound of his voice, trying to make out if he's _angry_ , or sad, but Loki's voice sounds as neutral as it can, with no quavers, no strange shifts in tone, or anything like that. "Who was the handsome man? The cook?"

"Handsome?" Steve repeats, frowning a little as he thinks of Rhodey's face, and he suppresses the fleeting desire to laugh. "That's Rhodey – Sergeant James Rhodes. He's Tony's best friend. And the red-head, that's Pepper Potts, his girlfriend." Steve puts his elbows on his knees, bringing them up a little. "Five kids, huh?"

"Six."

"Six? What, there was one you missed out?"

"Mmm-hmm." He doesn't want Steve to pursue that line of questioning – he can read the desperation radiating from him through the door, so he changes tact.

"Thor got kids?"

"No," Loki says. "But he will. It is known." The last three words have the air of an intonation, like something Steve would hear in church, and he frowns.

"What does that mean? It is known?"

"It's complicated to explain," Loki says. "The past, the future… I would rather not get into it, if I might be permitted. This isn't meant for mortal understanding." Is that how he thinks of them, Steve thinks? As _mortals_? He'd heard Thor's easy dismissals back on the plane, but this is different – Loki's tone isn't even disparaging.

"That's fine," Steve says. "You don't have to answer." He looks around the tiny little room, and he is reminded of the flop he shared with Bucky back in Brooklyn, once upon a time, when the skies were grey and the future was bright, and Steve was sick as a dog every damn day. "You can decorate in here, you know. Use your magic, do whatever you want to it. This is your space – no one's gonna take it off you."

"My thanks," Loki whispers. Steve sighs.

"I'm gonna need some homework off you."

"Home-work? What is this?"

"I'm gonna need you to write down all your skills. What you can do with magic, for example, but also stuff like your engineering capability, your skills with other stuff. And I'm gonna need to write down stuff you can and can't eat. If there's anything you don't want to do, for any reason, I'll want you to write that down too. Think of it like a dossier."

"You want me to write my weaknesses on a page for you to peruse?"

"No, I want you to write down your _strengths_ so that I can use you in the field."

"Very well, Captain. I will do as I am bid."

"Loki."

"Captain?"

"Make your room _comfortable_ for yourself. That's an order."

"Yes, Captain," Loki assents, and Steve breathes out a slow sigh of relief, reaching up and rubbing at his forehead. There's a little sweat clinging to the skin there, and Steve wonders if this situation is going to get better, or _worse_. Probably worse. Who is he kidding himself? Behind him, he hears the scuff of Loki's boots upon the ground, and he looks up at the bathroom door slowly opens. Loki looks down at him, and Steve can see the paleness of his features.

"You wearing one of those illusions?"

"Always," Loki says. Steve frowns up at him.

" _Always_? What do you mean?"

"Appearances are everything, Captain Rogers," Loki whispers, offering him his palm. Steve takes it, letting Loki pull him up, and Loki gives a slow, artful shrug of his shoulders. "I learned that from a young age."

"Show me," Steve says. "Show me what you look like." Why does it matter so much to him? Why does it make his heart beat harder in his chest, to think that Loki's hiding what he _is_ , what he should be? _Take away that suit, what are you?_ he thinks, his own words echoing in his head, and Loki wrinkles his nose.

"You don't want that," Loki says softly, but Steve keeps his stare steady.

"I _do_ ," Steve presses, and Loki sighs. His eyelids close, and then it's like his skin is bleeding away from him, like water draining away to reveal something underneath. First, Loki's hair changes: the heavy, greasy strands become thinner and longer, shining in the electric light from above their heads, and Steve can see the base of what looks like _horns_ coming out from his skull, forcing his hair to part and allow them through. Loki's white flesh gives way to deep blue skin that covers him from head to toe, and when Steve looks closely at his bare arms, he can see that there are strange indentations, like carvings, in the flesh, but there's more than that. Around Loki's lilac-tinged lips and around his heavily-lidded eyes, there is skin built up of paler blue, showing in ugly pock marks above and below his mouth, and showing in liquid splashes of scarring around his eyes, even on the eyelids themselves.

And then Loki opens them, and Steve stares at the red coating that has formed between Loki's eyes and the room at large, shining in the light. Loki looks at Steve for a long few moments, his stare impassive, and then he smiles, and Steve sees that even his teeth are different, sharper, biting.

"I have borne monstrous children, Captain Rogers, for I am a monster myself," Loki says easily: there's a musical lilt to his voice that Steve had never heard before, a soft resonance that seems to sound inside his very chest. "Do not make the mistake of believing me to be _human_ , as yourself."

"You really think you're a monster, huh?" Steve asks, and then he lets out a short laugh. "I've seen monsters, Loki. Blue skin and red eyes ain't nothing."

"You think the deaths I caused this week were bad?" Loki asks, and he laughs, lowly. There's something supremely dangerous about that laugh, and Steve gets the feeling that there's something about this situation he isn't quite sensing – energy seems to crackle in the air between them, and Loki's very words are heavy with what Steve would guess is magic. He closes the gap between them, leaning directly into Steve's space, and Steve's sensitive nose takes up unfamiliar fragrances and familiar ones all at once – glacial ice, fragrant fruits, and something old and sour, something ancient. "Captain Rogers, do you have any _idea_ what you have underneath your palm? Any idea what you command?" The room itself is fading away around them, now, and Steve can only see blackness on every side: Loki is there before him, but they don't even have a floor to stand on, the both of them suspended in space, and Steve feels his heart beat just a little bit faster in his chest.

"I have destroyed _armies_ that thought to stand against me – I have ripped the hearts from mortal chests and eaten them while still they _beat!_ I have brought ruin to cities, and Thor, oh, _your_ _golden Thor_ , he has stood beside me! The peoples we have destroyed, the planets we have wrought to wreck, and oh, the things _I_ have done. I have supped at the dust of dying stars, tasted new suns, and my name is spoken in hushed tones on a _thousand_ planets."

"Oh, yeah?" Steve says, schooling his expression into one of unimpressed _boredom._ "Well, guess what?"

" _What_?" Loki spits, and when flecks of it hit Steve's cheeks, he feels the slight acid burn of it. Jötnar have acid saliva – even with the fear Steve crushes deep inside him, he can't help but find that _interesting._

"None of that matters _any more_. Your reputation? Not yours. Your power? _Not yours_. Your name, even? It's not yours any more, your _highness_. Sit the fuck down and shut your damned mouth!" And just like that, Loki is seated on the desk in the corner of the room, his lips loosely pressed together, his hair greasy around his head once more. His skin looks paler than ever, now, and Steve can't help the way his eyes linger on the other man's eyes and lips, looking for the scars that are no longer visible. Loki sits atop his hands, and his expression is quietly melancholy, his eyes – blue again, now – far away.

"Loki." Loki's eyes settle on Steve's face. "It doesn't matter what you do. What you tell me. I'm not gonna hate you. So you might as well quit with the whole "I'm a horror unknown" shtick right now. I'm not impressed, I'm not _scared_ of you, and I sure as Hell don't give a shit how many civilizations you've _single-handedly_ levelled. Redemption starts _now_."

"You think I deserve redemption?" Loki asks, archly. " _Me_?"

"It's not about deserving it," Steve says. "It's not about you, Loki." This seems to throw the other off, sends his self-obsessed brain spinning, and Steve takes hold of the door knob, pulling the door open. "Fix this room. Like I said – however you want." With that, he steps out, and pulls the door closed.

Tony takes out one of his headphones, turning his head at the loud _thunk_ of a fist hitting leather. He sees that Steve is bouncing on his heels, bringing his bare knuckles down _hard_ against the punching bag time and time again. This is one of the heavy duty punching bags SHIELD had just had brought in for him, but Tony can see already that it's going to break off the chain soon.

Turning down the treadmill and walking to a stop, he steps out of the room and begins to head up the stairs.

"Hey, Tony," Bruce murmurs as they pass in the corridor. "I'm about to head out."

"You're gonna get a hotel?" Tony asks, and he puts his hand on Bruce's arm. "There's big suites upstairs, you know, I can put you up."

"Nah, I'm, uh, actually meeting someone for a drink," Bruce says, a little awkwardly, and Tony grins.

"Go get 'em, cowboy."

"Sure," Bruce mutters, raising his eyebrows. "If the big guy doesn't get 'em first." Tony watches the other man go, feeling the deep-settled ache in his belly that seems to follow him around whenever he talks to Banner, but the guy is already heading toward the elevator, his coat slung over his shoulder.

It's been a few hours since dinner, and most everyone's headed out – Pepper is back at home, and Rhodey's headed back to base. Tony had told Pepper to give the others free range of the tower, but nobody is around as he passes through the big dining area and heads into Loki's corridor. God, how many times a day is he going to be doing this for?

He knocks on the door.

"Come in," comes a smooth voice from inside, and Tony pushes the door open, then freezes. Leans out of the room to look at the wall between this small room and the next one. Leans back in.

"Am I in an episode of Doctor Who?"

"I don't care for popular culture," Loki says snidely, and Tony sniggers, stepping over the threshold and into the room. _Room_. It's a damned suite, now. Tony glances up at the high, vaulted ceiling, which is painted black and decorated with shining stars. Tony doesn't recognize the constellations, and he realises that this must be the view of the sky from Asgard's perspective. Instead of being a little cell of a room, six feet by ten, it is a wide room at least the size of Tony's own bedroom back in his apartment. Loki has made one of the walls entirely made up of windows, enchanted to display the city below them, and the furnishings are all positively Victorian, with curved legs and dark, polished wood. The biggest surprise is the colour scheme – Tony had expected dark greens, but instead he sees soft blues and lilacs, making the room feel light and open.

To the side of the room, a canopied double bed is pressed up against the wall, and beside it there is a reading nook, with shelves of books pressed against the wall and a small table and armchair set ready to settle at. Then, there is the antique-looking writing desk, made up with drawers and cabinets, with a stool tucked neatly underneath it. The door to the bathroom is slightly open, and Tony sees when he glances into the en suite that _that_ has been made a lot bigger too, a huge bath dominating the room. The light is on inside, and he takes a few steps toward it, leaning on the doorjamb and watching Loki. He is seated as a boudoir table, doing something as he leans in to look at his reflection in the mirror, and Tony suppresses the urge to scoff – of _course_ he'd have a boudoir.

"So when Steve said make yourself comfortable, you figured you'd go all out?"

"I was a prince, once upon a time," Loki says, and then he turns on the stool, meeting Tony's gaze. Tony stares. Loki's face… isn't Loki's. A lot of the hard lines of his chin and jaw have been wiped away, leaving a soft, heart-shaped face with pale lips, nut-brown skin and deep-set, brown eyes, a lined forehead.

"Put that away," Tony says, surprised by how unnerving it is to see such an unfamiliar face on such familiar shoulders, and Loki's face changes before his eyes, returning to the blue eyes, the pale features.

"Whose face was that?"

"Mine," Loki murmurs. "I'm worshiped with that face in the Fon system."

"What? You can't be a god with your own face?"

"You want to see the way the Midgardians viewed me? Your Vikings?" Loki asks, his dark brows raising slightly, and Tony hesitates for a second before he nods his head. Loki stands, rolling his shoulders, and then he grows before Tony's eyes, taking on five or six more inches in height: his skin becomes spattered with messy freckles and battle scars, and his hair becomes starkly red, his chin sharpening, his nose longer than before. When Tony looks into Loki's eyes, he sees that one is bright green, and the other is brown, and he laughs.

"That's pretty good," he admits. Loki's armour had changed with his body, changing to brown robes and a loose armour atop it. It's… _Weird_ , how smoothly it seems to come to him. "Have you always been able to do that? Shapeshift?"

"Before I could walk, I could change my form," Loki murmurs: his god voice is harsh at the edges and higher pitched than his usual voice, but it's fading away almost immediately, replaced with just Loki. He's wearing a pair of green, silken pyjamas. Tony didn't know the Asgardians _had_ pyjamas. "Some of my first memories are of walking in the palace gardens in the form of a cat, or wrestling with my brother in the form of a snake, or a wolf cub. You're staring."

"PJs? Really? What are you, a fourteen year old girl?" Loki tilts his head to the side, and his hair bounces slightly on his shoulders. Gone is the greasiness Tony had seen before, with his hair slicked back from his head – instead, Loki's hair comes in thick waves from around his head, silken and hanging about his shoulders.

"Don't you people wear clothes to bed? I thought this was to standard."

"We're gonna leave the "you people" comment at the wayside for now," Tony says, "but most people just sleep in their underwear. I mean, sure, people wear _pyjamas_ , but… Isn't the green silk a bit girly?"

"Gender isn't really my forte," Loki says smoothly. "It has as little meaning to a shapechanger as a moon might have to a crab." Tony blinks, once. "Underwear? You mean the clothes I wear beneath my armour? Leggings and a chemise?"

"Or just, you know. Boxers."

"Boxers," Loki repeats, as if the word is entirely cryptic. To a non-Earthling, Tony supposes it is, and he doesn't really have it in him to go through the kinds of underwear with Loki right about now, so he elects to change the subject.

"I'm gonna head to bed, get some shut-eye. Wanted to check if you needed anything."

"My freedom?"

"Sorry, big guy. Can't give you that." Loki's smile is wan, and he slowly shakes his head.

"Then no."

"You mind if I ask you a question?"

"Ask as you will."

"What'd you do with your hair?"

"Oh," Loki says, and he reaches up, running his hand through the locks. Loki sees them give way smoothly beneath his fingers, and he says, "Ah… I've always greased my hair. Thor, you saw him in the lightning storm, but he's always had an element of thunder at his fingertips. When we were children, he would shock me at every available opportunity, and my hair would become a _bird's nest_ for the static. Out of habit alone—" Loki trails off. "Well. It hardly matters now."

"You pissed Cap off," Tony says.

"Not as much as I wanted to," Loki replies easily. He steps outside of the bathroom, and as he leaves, the candles within blow out – only now does Tony realise Loki has replaced the electric lights with oil lamps, and when he scans the walls, he sees that Loki has smoothed out the need for power sockets. What _is_ this, exactly? He can't just have _enlarged_ the room into the other bedrooms, so what is it? A pocket dimension? "I provoked him, Mr Stark, in the hopes I might affect him to abandon his hopes of my redemption – unsuccessfully, I might add."

"Huh," Tony says. "What, you don't like redemption arcs? All the best comics have 'em."

"I _do_ know what a comic is," Loki murmurs, "and I do _not_ approve." Tony smirks. "I have "homework" to proceed with. I shall see you come morning."

"Six AM, early start. You cool with that?"

"I come from an ice planet. I'm _cool_ with nearly everything." Tony winces, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head with disapproval – Loki's lips quirk into the smallest of smiles, and he settles at his writing desk, his back straight, his gaze focused on the pages he writes upon, and with a _quill_ , for God's sake.

What a guy.

"Night night, Reindeer Games."

"Good evening, Mr Stark. May your dreams treat you well," Loki murmurs, and Tony pulls the door shut behind him as he heads down the corridor.


	3. Brought To Justice 3

When one is an immortal, the passage time becomes somewhat immaterial. Every day that passes is scarcely an afterthought, a vague understanding that once more, the sun has risen and the sun has sunk beneath the distant horizon, and that another page of Loki's meticulously kept diary has been filled from margin to margin.

The days on Midgard are shorter than those on Asgard – the planet is small, much smaller than Asgard, and there are only twenty-four hours to the day. It is somewhat frustrating, he must admit, trying to accustom to such short hours, particularly when the Avengers demand such time of him to train (and what a _joke_ this "training" is), and when he has so much to learn, so much to try to learn, to take in.

 **May 6th, 2014**

The Allspeak cannot teach Loki that which he does not already know, and there are thousands of non-familiar concepts, inventions, oddities of this strange little realm, and _brands_ , and names!

"Lift it? What do you mean?" Loki asks, staring at the object before him. A long, steel pole rests upon a custom-made stand, with large weights on each side. There are three weights on each side, labelled _15kg_ , and Rogers crosses his arms over his chest. Loki moves toward it, tilting his head as he examines the object.

"You just lift it: lie down on your back and— Jesus!" Loki gently brings the rod from its moorings, feeling its weight over his palm. "That's really that easy for you?"

"Why shouldn't it be? I weigh three times as much as this."

"Loki, you're holding two hundred pounds in one hand. That's not meant to be easy. Are you using magic?"

"No," Loki answers. Rogers lets out a laugh, turns away from him, and puts his face in his hands.

 **May 7th, 2012**

"Just try one," Stark says, and Loki looks up from the packet in his hand.

"Do you want to know how many artificial colouring agents this contains?"

"I most certainly do not," Stark replies.

"I'm not going to eat that." Stark sighs, and he puts one of the _gummy worms_ in his mouth.

"Fair enough," Stark relents, and he snatches the packet back.

 **May 8th, 2012**

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"I won't have to touch you if you'll just stay still, Mr Barton," Loki retorts, and Barton scrambles away from him, his arm dribbling blood, and Loki puts his left hand up in the air, freezing Barton bodily in his place. Struggle as he might, Barton cannot move so much as a muscle, except to breathe and let out gasping sounds of fear, and Loki lets out a trail of seiðr, healing the wound Barton had sustained when his bowstring had snapped.

Loki releases him, then, and Barton _lunges_ at him, his bloody hand going for Loki's throat – when he tries to squeeze, he finds the marble column of Loki's throat will not so much as dimple. He lacks the _strength_.

"You can't fucking do that," Barton snaps.

"What, heal your wounds? I believe you'll find that I can and, in fact, am _bound_ to." Clint smacks him across the face, his palm coming hard against the side of Loki's cheek, and Loki doesn't feel the need to pretend it hurts. It hurts Barton, though, and he lets out a short, soft sound of pain. Loki's seiðr comes across the bruised flesh like water, and Clint hisses out a sound as he stalks away from Loki.

 **May 9th, 2012**

"You like cats?" The cat butts against Loki's cheek, its whiskers brushing over his cheeks and lips, and Loki smiles, softly, rubbing against the young feline's softly vibrating gullet. Banner is watching him as if Loki is some sort of strange museum exhibit, and Loki glances from him back to the cat.

"My mother keeps cats," Loki replies. "They're so _small_ on this planet."

"How big are they on Asgard?"

"Bigger than you." Bruce smiles, apparently forgetting for a moment that he oughtn't smile at Loki.

"Really?"

"No. But bigger than her. Twice her size, perhaps," Loki answers, and then he stands, walking beside the other man away from the alleyway.

 **May 10th, 2012**

"Who's this?" Petroyvek says, and Romanov turns to look at Loki. Loki, who has shoulder-length, red hair and pale pink skin, plump lips, and eyes of sapphire blue.

"Intern," Romanov replies, and Loki breaks the hand of the "goon" that reaches for him.

 **May 11th, 2012**

"You got mail, princess," Stark says, and he passes an envelope into his hand. Loki stares at it, stares at the handwriting on the front of the envelope, looping to just say _Loki_. The back of the envelope shines with the golden gilt of the royal seal.

It turs to ashes in his hands, and Stark seems too scared to question him about it.

 **May 12th, 2012**

Loki lies on his back, feeling the cool stone of the tower's roof beneath his shoulders. He wears a loose button-up shirt, plain trousers, and he stares up at the stars above him. It makes him sick, to look at them.

They're all _wrong_.

 **May 13th, 2012**

"You want one?" Barton asks as he hands a ten-dollar bill to the man at the "hot dog" stand. Loki frowns, tilting his head to the side, and shakes his head.

 **May 14th, 2012**

"What are the rules?" Loki asks, and Banner comes to stand a little closer to him, until Banner's shoulder is brushing against Loki's elbow. Has he truly forgotten what Loki is so soon? Truly come to trust him so very easily?

"They have to shoot for the basket with a trick-shot," Banner explains. Rogers bounces the basketball off of a nearby rubbish bin, and it sails easily up into the air, dropping down into the net as Barton groans his frustration. "That means that the ball isn't just going clean into the net, but they're bouncing it off something or getting it in by a longshot."

"Why it called Horse?" Banner opens his mouth, then closes it.

"I don't know," Banner says. "Five letters, I guess."

 **May 15th, 2012**

"What're you reading?" Sergeant Rhodes asks, and Loki glances up at him.

"The New Testament," Loki replies. Rhodes stares at him, blinking once. Twice.

"Good read?" he asks.

"I don't understand why this is presented as one volume. Many of the gospels are repeated several times over, between the individual books. He was undoubtedly an eloquent speaker, regardless of his upbringing, but—"

"Who?" Rhodes asks.

"Christ." Rhodes stares at Loki, for a long few moments, and then turns on his heel and walks away. Frowning, Loki turns back to the text.

 **May 16th, 2012**

"You just gonna wear a new face every day, now?" Romanov asks him.

"Don't you get tired of wearing the same one?" Loki asks. Romanov lets out a sound that is almost a laugh – it would be, were it not quite so derisive.

 **May 17th, 2012**

"That's Lucky," Barton says.

"It's a dog. How lucky can it be?" Loki replies evenly as he reads a _Wikipedia_ article about bullet rounds. The article is badly parsed. Loki ought edit it. The dog pads forward, and it lays its head gently upon Loki's knee, looking up at him with soulful brown eyes. Loki pats its head, gently, and it leaves him – mercifully – alone.

 **May 18th, 2012**

"And now, downward dog…" the woman's voice is low and soothing, and Loki examines the position on screen for a moment before carefully bringing himself into the position. Many of the poses are perhaps a little basic for his liking, so used as he is to performing his own stretching exercises and contortions, but he should rather begin with _these_ poses and keep up with the instructions when he focuses on a more advanced video.

"You're gonna become a yoga mom, huh?"

"What connotations does that label come with?" Loki replies, and he stands, examining the pose on the screen before adjusting it slightly, putting his leg over his head instead of at a triangular angle, and he hears Stark whistle.

"Jesus. You're lucky Clint's one of us, or he'd be getting you to join the circus."

"I'm too pretty for the circus," Loki replies mildly, and Stark laughs.

"Yeah, Pepper said the same thing," he replies, and Loki flicks the video off, turning to look at the other man. "But with more indignation." Loki smiles, wanly.

"I see," he says.

 **May 19th, 2012**

Loki speaks to nobody that day. He finds himself assailed by one of his melancholies, and he spends the entirety of the day in the confines of his quarters, sitting in the corner of the room, his back against the wall.

Another letter from Asgard, unread, rests upon his writing desk, and he doesn't dare look at it.

 **May 20th, 2012**

Loki lies back in the cold bath, letting out a short hiss of pain. His skin is red and covered in stretches of rash and pained, raised bumps, his ankles and neck swollen more than they should be. When the door bursts open, Loki is far from surprised, and he looks up at Rogers from within the bathwater.

Rogers stares into the depths of the water, his gaze running over Loki's usually white flesh.

"What the Hell happened?"

"Doctor Banner asked me to join me for a swim in the basement pool. He thought I might be able to shave a few minutes from his lap time."

"And?"

"I haven't been swimming for months – I dived into the pool."

" _And_?" Rogers presses, and Loki sighs, looking down at his patchy body. Even his _face_ is marked with red spots and painful strips of skin, and he feels like stewing in his water as a bilgesnipe in swamp.

"It would seem I had an allergic reaction," Loki replies. "Ms Potts forwarded me the list of the cleaning supplies used in the pool, and I would guess it's the potassium peroxymonosulfate. It's an oxidizing agent introduced to pools to balance against the amount of chlorine."

"I thought you were an alien," Rogers says.

"Aliens have allergies," Loki replies. "Do you think I lack an immune system as well?" Rogers crosses his arms over his chest, taking a step forward, and his gaze flits downward, stopping between Loki's legs. His blond brows furrow, and Loki says, for a second time, _"Alien_."

"Thor doesn't look like _that_ ," Rogers murmurs. "And Thor has hair." If Loki felt nervous about this particular situation, perhaps he would press his thighs together and hide the shape of his organs, but the pain is too widespread to move with such a hurry, and Rogers doesn't seem the type to become so hung up on such minor details.

"Thor and I are different species," Loki points out. "As I believe I've told you before."

"That hurt?"

"Terribly." Loki sighs, softly, and tries to dip himself lower into the water. It becomes cloudy with ice, and Loki relaxes slightly in the freezing press of it against his skin. "My apologies. I ought have tested the waters first."

"Don't apologize," Rogers says, and then he turns to go.

 **May 21st, 2012**

"You ever try some, Loki? _Long-pig?_ " Rhodes asks, and Loki looks across the table at him. Loki had been somewhat nervous about settling at the table with the marks and redness still visible on his face and neck, on the backs of his hands, but no one has mentioned it. If anything, everyone is being almost _kind._

"My advice would be not to ask questions you don't want the answers to," Loki replies quietly. Rhodes stares at him, then grins, leaning across the table.

"You _haven't_ ," he says. "You haven't!"

"You oughtn't look so excited," Loki says. "From your perspective, this is cannibalism."

"How long ago was it? What, a thousand years ago? Two thousand?"

"You can't just drop out a hint you've _eaten people_ and not spill the beans," Barton jumps in, pushing his sickly-sweet cake aside, and Loki looks around at all of them. Even _Rogers_ looks rather curious, and Loki wonders why he had so overestimated the human capacity for disgust amongst these _strange_ little creatures.

"Human flesh was overly rich and fatty in Nippur, two thousand years ago. I certainly wouldn't recommend it now."

"Nippur?" Romanov repeats. "What, in Iraq?"

"It wasn't called Iraq back then," Loki murmurs, and then he sets his knife and fork down. "I was young, impulsive. I had learned new spells that very week, and my mind was electrified by the magic within me, driving me nearly feral."

"So you _ate_ him?" Stark asks, and Loki exhales.

"He was a soothsayer. He told me I should convert."

"What to?" Banner asks.

"I never found out," Loki replies, mildly. "I devoured his heart from his chest and roasted his tongue on a spit."

"Gross," Barton says. "You eat _tongue_?" Loki puts his face in his hands, and when the laugh sounds from the around the table, he feels neither small, nor pathetic. The laughter is good-natured, and warm, and Loki feels – for a second – as if he is at home.

 **May 22nd, 2012**

"Good morning, Colonel Fury – I suppose you're here to see Captain Rogers," Loki says. "How are you?"

"Shut the fuck up," Fury retorts as he sails past Loki, and Loki shrugs his shoulders, returning to his book.

 **May 23rd, 2012**

"You wanna come?" Barton asks. Loki glances up from the laptop on the table before him, staring at the other man, and he slowly moves to stand. "What? We're going to the movies." Loki takes a few steps forward, examining Barton carefully, and despite how close Loki comes to him, despite how much Barton should _fear_ him, he does not flinch away. He looks up at Loki, his expression a mask of perplexity.

"Your habit of burying trauma in humour and friendly ribaldry is toxic to you," Loki says, very quietly. Barton leans back, his eyes widening slightly. "Go to the cinema with Ms Romanov, Mr Barton. Put this behind you."

"What, you think you're too good to be friends with me?"

"Mr _Barton_ ," Loki says, emphatically. "It is precisely the opposite." Barton walks away from him, and Loki slowly shakes his head.

 **May 24th, 2012**

"Do a hundred more," Rogers says. Loki is partway to his feet when Rogers gives the order, and Loki sighs, dropping down onto his palms once again and beginning the round of push-ups once again. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him he should stop attempting to be my _friend_ ," Loki says. "He oughtn't forget what this is." Rogers' foot rests against Loki's shoulder, and he begins to place his weight upon Loki's back, pressing down with some of his inhuman strength, and the push-ups become marginally more difficult.

"This is your redemption, Loki. Get your head out of your ass and take it." A shiver runs down Loki's spine, and he bites it down, focusing on the burn in his arms, the ache in his palms.

 **May 25th, 2012**

"Pietro Maximoff," the man says, and when he puts out his hand, Loki takes it. "This is my sister, Wanda."

"Put your magic away," she says, and Loki gives a small bow of his head, his expression apologetic. His seiðr is normally stretched about him, tendrils comfortably taking in that which can be felt upon the air – enough, for example, to realize that neither twin is as young as they seem to be, to realize that they are older than they seem. She puts out her hand, and Loki takes it, leaning and pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers, which are a beautiful brown. "You think I'll be charmed by this?"

"Of course not," Loki murmurs, and he looks between the two of them, feeling a soft smile come to his face. "But I know royalty when I see it." Her brown eyes widen, and immediately her brother steps in, his fists clenched at his sides, and Loki reaches for his hand as well, holding it tightly. His blood runs so fast beneath his skin that Loki can feel it like the thrum of a livewire, and Loki looks between the both of them.

"You look like—"

"My father, yes, I know," Maximoff mutters. So these are two of the children of the _mighty_ Magneto – a king in his own right, Loki thinks, or he _would_ be. Loki can feel the twist and tingle of reality-bending magic around Wanda's energy, clinging to her skin like stardust. Loki will only _have_ to use their forenames: it is so complicated with twins.

"Joaquin Phoenix," Loki replies. "Tony Stark had me watch a film that starred him."

"I don't watch TV," he says, lowly. "Nor film."

"I don't care for it," Loki admits. Wanda pulls her hand away, but Pietro doesn't: he lets his hand remain in Loki's grip, and Loki leans, brushing his lips across _his_ fingers too. If it shocks him, it doesn't show on the other man's face.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Wanda asks, and Loki smiles.

"If he wants you to." Pietro withdraws his hand, squinting slightly at Loki, and Loki cannot help the way he grins.

 **May 26th, 2012**

"You got another letter," Tony says. "You want me to give it to you, or are you just gonna burn it again?" Loki hesitates, looking at the envelope in Tony's hand, and then he takes it, opening up the envelope and looking at the paper within. Fragments of the wax seal cling to his fingernails, but he barely notices as he looks at the two pages, one written in his mother's careful script, the other in his brother's ugly scrawl.

He looks between the two of them, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

"You expected three letters?"

"No," Loki answers. "But I hoped."

 **May 27th, 2012**

 _Dearest brother,_

 _Dear Thor,_

 _Thor,_

 _Dearest Thor,_

The nib of Loki's pen crumples beneath the press of Loki's hand to the page, and Loki sets it aside, then begins reading the Wikipedia article on the previous iterations of the Avengers Initiative. The Maximoffs have been involved before, back in the seventies, and Loki runs his hand through his hair as he reads through the page before him.

 _Dear Loki,_ reads the letter open upon Loki's table, and Loki cannot help the way his gaze is drawn to it. Loki had sent his reply to his mother yesterday, but Thor's… _Brother, pray, know first of all that I forgive you, whole-heartedly, and with all the love I have to hand. Do not doubt that I adore you, even now: I miss you with every day that passes, and I wish only to forge our bond anew_.

Loki closes his laptop, closes his eyes, and tips his head toward the ceiling.

"Loki! Am I teaching you how to make this masala or not?" comes a call from down the hall – Rhodes is in the kitchen, waiting for him, and Loki is desperately glad for the distraction.

 **May 28th, 2012**

"Hard, isn't it?" Maximoff asks across the table.

"What?" Loki asks.

"Having to be a hero when you know you're not one." Loki smiles.

"There are similarities between our situations, of course. For example, we both have blue eyes and prominent noses." Maximoff laughs. There's something uncanny about the way he moves, perhaps because he is naturally inclined to moving so very fast, because he is slowing himself down for Loki's benefit, as he does everyone else.

"Pass the salad," Romanov says, and Loki does.

"You aren't an Avenger," Loki murmurs. "You still have a contract with the X-Factor, do you not?"

"You aren't an Avenger either," Maximoff replies. " _Yet_." Loki smiles.

"No. I'm not."

 **May 29th, 2012**

 _Dearest Thor,_

 _I regret my haste in avoiding the first letters yourself and Mother sent to me: I hope you know I did not mean to be uncaring, or unfeeling. I was driven by fear alone, unable to bear glancing at the parchments I thought would condemn me ever more than I already am condemned… And I was wrong to doubt you._

 _The events of New York, I would tell you— They were not entirely within my control. I would not ask you sympathize with me, for I still made the choice to attack your Avengers, still laid out a plan that would harm your few friends on Earth._

 _I am safe, brother, and I am well. Captain Rogers treats me well, although he has no obligation to do so, and I feel almost comfortable in my position here. I am not a hero at my core: it does not come naturally to me to be self-sacrificing, to be as you are. And yet my very magic binds me in my bones, makes me become accustomed to my situation in a way I would not without it._

 _I have always struggled, as you know, in search of happiness. I have seen Angrboða go before me to Hel; I have felt my children taken from me; I have parted ways with Sigyn, after the death of our two boys. I feel ever adrift on a vast ocean, unsinking, with no shore in sight._

 _Let me be as you are. Let me try._

 _With all my love,_  
Your brother in bond if not blood,  
Loki

Steve stands in the middle of Central Park, sunglasses balanced on his nose to protect from the glare of the sun. It isn't as warm as it looks, but Steve just wears a light t-shirt and a pair of shorts, already having done his morning jog. Once again, the young black guy – another soldier, is right in front of him, and he is approaching Steve with a smile on his face.

"Out here making me look bad again, huh?"

"I don't need to make you look bad," Steve replies, putting his hand out to shake, his dossier held at his side, and the soldier takes it firm in his own hand. "You do that all on your own."

"Sam Wilson," the soldier says, and Steve smiles.

"Steve Rogers."

"Uh, _yeah_ , I know. You saved New York a month ago?" Steve shrugs his shoulders, feigning a lack of care, and he and Sam then chuckle together, sharing a laugh. Steve watches as Sam pulls his water bottle up to his lips, taking a long drink before he glances at the dossier in Steve's left hand.

"What's that? Paperwork?"

"Something like that," Steve says, and he turns his head. The young man that comes running toward them looks to be in his early twenties, his skin fair, his eyes a soft, sea-green. He's running fast, and this is his fifteenth lap of the park, but he still hasn't broken a sweat. Skidding to a stop in front of them, Steve reaches back, grabbing a bottle off the bench and passing it over – the runner takes a short sip, then reaches up, pushing his red hair out of his eyes. "You're not sweating. Isn't this hot weather for you?"

"I don't sweat, Captain Rogers," the runner replies, and Steve looks down at the folder.

"Did you write that down?"

"Why would I write that down? Is it important that I sweat?"

"Do another lap," Steve says.

"But I—"

"Go!" Tossing the bottle back to Steve, Loki takes off, and Steve grabs a pen out of pocket, scribbling "doesn't sweat" at the top of the page he's on. Loki had passed the dossier onto Steve two days after he'd arrived, handwritten with a fucking _index_ at the back, but the thing is like a damned book, and Steve has barely read halfway through it.

"Training new super soldiers?" Sam asks, his lips quirking into an easy smile, and Steve exhales slowly, shaking his head. They'd decided the day after Loki had touched back down on Earth to keep the situation secret from the public for now – better to have him appear as someone else for now, and to wait until they'd fully catalogued what the guy could or _couldn't_ do before they put him in the field and started selling him as a guy out for redemption.

"He's not in the same league as super soldiers," Steve says, and Sam laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Shit," Sam says, looking down the trail Loki had taken. "Kid's giving you a run for your money?" This shouldn't be part of Steve's purview right about now. Steve should be chilling out, making a list of the stuff he still needs to learn about this modern new world – like Loki is – and he isn't. Tony is taking over the Avengers management, and Steve… Steve has his hands full with Loki.

"You have no _idea_. Doesn't even realise he's supposed to be sweating. You know how many laps he's done?"

"How many?"

" _That's_ his sixteenth."

"Jeeze," Sam says. "How do you—" There's a loud, crackling bang on the air, sounding heavily on the warm breeze, and Steve's head whips in the direction of the gunshot. Immediately, he and Sam are running toward it, Sam falling behind as Steve's comparative speed kicks in, and Steve zones on the sound of a struggle, coming into a wooded area of Central Park and scrambling through some thick bushes.

"I told you to stick to the path!"

"You also told me I had to help people in danger!" Loki snaps back, and he bends his head, his red hair shining in the light that dapples in through the trees above their head. The girl across his lap has deep brown skin and natural hair, a ring through her nose: Loki is carefully pushing her hair aside to work on the wound on the side of her skull. Steve can see that the bullet has glanced off the side of the girl's head, and he glances around for the shooter, listening for pounding feet.

There are none.

He kneels down beside her, and he stares as Loki weaves his magic into the flesh, rebuilding it before Steve's eyes, building up the fragmented skull. Loki has his palm tangled in her hair, his gaze focused, but far away, and Steve just _wishes_ he'd had the time to get to the bit in the dossier on Loki's healing.

"She gonna be okay?"

"She'll be fine," Loki answers, and he taps the girl's face, gently. She stirs, her eyes opening, and she shocks in her place, but he shushes her in a very soft, low voice. "I'm so sorry for shocking you."

"Eli had a gun, he was gonna— Shit—"

"Sit up carefully," Loki instructs, and Steve leans back, his hands on his knees as the girl comes up into a sitting position, looking around her wildly. Behind Steve, he feels Sam's steps come up behind him, but Steve doesn't even need to put up a hand to stop for him to get the message.

"What happened? Where is he? He was waving this gun around, talking about… Shit, I don't even know…" She trails off, and Steve watches the way Loki's hand settles on her arm.

"He ran," Loki murmurs. "What's your name?"

"Vanessa," she says. She's breathing heavily, and for the first time, she turns to look at Steve. Her lips part, her eyes widening slightly.

"You fainted," Loki murmurs quietly. "It's an understandable reaction – when we're given a big shock, sometimes our vagus nerve, which connects our lungs and heart to our brain, is prompted by the sudden change in blood pressure, and we lose consciousness in a fainting spell. Your lovely hair cushioned the blow quite nicely." Despite the shock of the situation, Steve can see Vanessa's lips twitch, and she smiles.

"You saved me. I remember— He was about to pull the trigger."

"Just happenstance, I fear," Loki says mildly, patting her shoulder once more. "Very lucky, too – he might have shot you." Standing, he offers her his hand to help her up, and she lets out a short, nervous sound. "You should call someone. Your mother – a family member. You oughtn't be alone."

"Yeah, I, I'll call my mom. Thanks, uh— What's your name?"

"Hamish," Loki says smoothly. "Have a good day, Vanessa. Stay safe." It doesn't look exactly like she wants to go – Steve can see the curiosity on her face, the way she wants to linger, but the way Loki suggests stuff, it comes across as… Not an imperative, but a _push_ , at least, and Steve has to wonder if there is magic in the words themselves. Steve can see Vanessa tap a number into her phone and hold it to her ear as she keeps on walking, and Loki sits back on his heels.

"Hamish, huh?" Sam says. "What, you English?"

" _Samuel_ , is it? Who are _you_ , the son of Hannah?"

"Don't get nasty with strangers," Steve mutters under his breath, knowing Loki will hear him, and Loki closes his mouth shut, crossing his arms over his chest. "And don't use the _Bible_ to do it, people will think you're some crazy church guy."

"Nah, my mom was called Deborah. I'm the son of Paul, though," Sam says, not seeming too offended, and he puts his hand out to shake. Loki takes it, politely. "Guy ran off?"

"No," Loki replies, and he glances to Steve, asking silent permission. _Praying_ Loki isn't going to show them a body, Steve nods his head. Loki takes a few more steps away from them, reaching into some thick hawthorn bushes, and he drags out the guy inside. Eli, a white boy with a California tan, is out cold, and in pulling him out from the bushes, Loki has caught his forehead on the hawthorn – a thin trickle of blood is coming away from his brow. Loki frowns, reaching down to heal it, but Steve catches his arm, giving a slow shake of his head.

"We'll take him to the station," Steve says, and Loki reaches into the bushes, using a handkerchief to hold the gun.

"Glock," Loki says.

"Very good," Steve says, then looks at Loki expectantly, arching his eyebrows. Loki looks between Steve and Sam once again, and Steve says, "It's fine. Tell me what it is."

"It's a fourth-generation Glock 17. Magazine capacity of 17, and it's a semi-automatic handgun, popular with law enforcement… No serial number: it's been scratched off."

"What rounds does it take?" Sam asks.

"9 by 19mm rounds – Parabellum. One of the most popular rounds in the world, actually, particularly for military use – it was designed by Georg Luger in 1902 and the name actually derives from the Latin: _si vas pacem, para bellum_ : if you seek peace, prepare for war. I was just reading last night—" Christ, the man takes in information like a _sponge_. Tony had shown him Wikipedia in the first week he was here, and the guy just takes in page after page of information – seemingly to memorise it.

"That's enough," Steve says, and Loki does.

"You in the army?" Sam asks.

"Goodness no," Loki replies, and when Steve stares at him, he amends, unconvincingly, "I've not the wherewithal for such hardship."

"I'll see you, Sam," Steve says, and Sam presses a piece of paper into his hand – a phone number. "You picking me up?"

"Not without a little more benchwork," Sam replies: Steve half grins, despite himself, and Sam gives him a mock salute as he heads off, and Steve can't help but watch him go. Then, he turns his head: Loki's lips are twisted in a sour scowl, and he stares down at the man prone on the ground before them.

"I wasn't expecting this situation, Captain Rogers," Loki murmurs quietly. A little apprehension shows on the pale face of Hamish Adams, and Loki adds, "She let out a sort of half-scream, but his hand had clapped over her mouth – if I hadn't stepped in, she surely would have—"

"You don't have to justify it," Steve says. "You made the right call. Did he see anything?"

"No, I came up behind them. My reflexes weren't quite fast enough, but any slower and the bullet—"

"Yeah, I get you," Steve says. "Let's go."

"Where've you been?" Tony asks, and Bruce sighs, slowly sinking into the mesh chair across from Tony. They're at a Jewish deli Happy had recommended, and Tony pushes the cup of coffee waiting for Bruce across the table to him, watching the other man take the drink and take a long, slow sip. Bruce is dressed in a green shirt, and Tony is dressed in slacks and a t-shirt, his sunglasses hiding a good amount of his face from view as he leans back in the seat.

"The police station, and then Avengers Tower," Bruce murmurs. "Steve needed to stick around and give more statements, but he wanted someone to walk Loki back to the Tower, and Clint wouldn't do it."

"You blame him?" Clint is avoiding Loki entirely now, barely even looking at the guy if it can be avoided, and Tony only vaguely knows what the Hell passed between them.

"No," Bruce replies. "I was kinda apprehensive, if I'm honest."

"What did you talk about?" Tony asks, and Bruce runs his fingers through his hair, its waves giving way under his hand. "Let me guess. He didn't say a word."

"No, no, he did," Bruce says, shaking his head. "Told me the whole story. He was jogging in the park – Steve's getting him to do laps – and as he hears this shout of surprise, some girl crying out. So he busts through the bushes, and sees this guy, her boyfriend – Eli Henderson – with a Glock in his hand, ready to shoot this poor girl's brains out. Turns out this guy thought she was having sex with her psych professor, and was ready to kill her over it – completely unfounded, apparently – and Loki stepped in. Caught the gun out of the guy's hand just as he was shooting, so that the bullet just _grazed_ her instead of going right through her face, knocked Henderson out…" Bruce rubs his temples, slowly shaking his head. "I dunno. Something just doesn't sit right with me about the whole thing."

"What do you mean?" Tony asks, and Bruce sighs.

"Steve was glad. Excited, even – Loki stepped in and saved somebody without a thought. But Loki, God, the guy might as well be telling me about a Wiki article he read. It's like it doesn't matter to him at all. I'm not expecting him to be Mr Fantastic overnight, but…" Bruce trails off, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. Tony can see the calmness in him, the surprising ease with which he conducts himself – this isn't a guy frightened of unleashing the Hulk at any second. Not right now, anyway. "I keep forgetting he's an alien."

"Me too," Tony murmurs. "You think it's ever gonna work? Him as one of us?"

"I don't know," Bruce says, tapping his fingers against the desk. "You and Steve are working out a whole initiative, right? Some of the local heroes… I heard you were gonna poach some of the X-Men. What, the Maximoffs aren't enough for you?"

"We only have _one_ of the Maximoffs, and… It's not poaching if they come to us," Tony replies, and Bruce grins.

"You sound like Jen," Bruce says, and Tony gasps woundedly, putting his hand over the Arc Reactor dully shining from beneath his shirt.

" _Me_? Sounding like a lawyer? That's a horrible thing to say." Tony frowns. "Wait, no, she's also your _cousin_ , and that's even worse. I don't want to be related to you."

"Worried you'll turn green?"

"Worried I'll turn _nerdy_." Bruce laughs, showing all of his teeth, and Tony smiles to see _him_ smile. "I'll talk to him, Bruce. See… What's up."

Loki sits in the corner of the common room, sitting straight-backed on a dining chair, his feet planted on the ground, his gaze on his laptop screen. It's incredible, Tony thinks, how quickly he's picked it up – his fingers flash across the keys as if he's been touch-typing for years, and as he reads page after page he takes careful notes in a leather-bound diary, his pen ( _we're past the quill, now, huh?)_ leaving curving lines over the parchment. He sits right next to the wide windows – Tony's noticed he seems to be drawn to spaces where he can survey a lot at once, like a damned cat.

"You can have an armchair, you know," Tony calls as he comes into the common room, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly to the side. Loki looks up from the laptop, his lips parting. "Or the couch. Maybe a beanbag."

"Beanbag," Loki repeats, and Tony watches his fingers flash across the keys, press Enter… Loki's face is a mask of disapproval. "That seems very undignified."

"That's life on Earth for ya, your highness. It's indignity all the way to the top."

"I'm not a prince any more, Mr Stark," Loki replies evenly. Tony wonders if there will come a point where Loki calls _any_ of them by their first names, or if they're going to eternally be "Captain Rogers," "Mr Stark" and "Doctor Banner." He looks back to his laptop, then turns his head sidelong, his gaze settling on Tony's face. "Have you need of me?"

"Wanted to ask how your day went," Tony replies, mildly. "Bruce says you got into the hero business a little early."

"Oh, _that_ ," Loki says dismissively, and he stands from the chair, setting his laptop and his notebook aside. He wears a tight-fitting, light blue shirt that's open at the collar, paired with black trousers that are tight at his hips and calves, and his hair is tied messily in a loose bun. Tony'll give it to him – the guy blends into the New York Streets so easily that even with the exact same face he wore to pulverize the city a month ago, nobody notices him. "I was obeying orders."

"You didn't have to save that girl," Tony says. "Didn't have to knock the guy out so Steve could take him to the cops. Didn't _have_ to do any of it."

"Fourteen days ago, Captain Rogers: if you see someone in immediate danger, and there's not enough time to tell someone else, step in. Save them if you can. Nineteen days ago, Captain Rogers: don't kill anybody, but knock someone peacefully out if they're getting violent. Eight days ago, _you_ : you're meant to be a hero, now, Loki, and you can't just stand by if someone's getting hurt." Tony stares at him, and Loki stares back.

"Well," he says, trying to grab at _something_ to say in response to that, "Didn't it feel good?"

"What?"

"You saved her," Tony says. "You saved that girl's life. Doesn't that make you feel good?" Loki tilts his head to the side, seeming to consider the thought. Jesus, he _is_ alien sometimes. He's almost robotic, the way he thinks about this _simple_ question, but Tony isn't gonna hold that against him.

"No," he says. "I don't feel anything about it. She wasn't important."

"Of _course_ she was important," Tony says, reaching out and touching the side of Loki's arm, and Loki looks down at the touch of his hand as if Tony is poking him with a stick, but Tony powers through. "Listen, Loki, that kid is gonna live a long life, live happily, all because you didn't let that stupid kid murder her just 'cause he could."

"Long life?" Loki lets out a derisive sound. He curls his lip in obvious disgust, and he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

"Well, not by your standards, sure, but by hers," Tony says, trying to be patient, but Loki cuts him off before he can say anything.

"No, she isn't," Loki retorts.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Brain tumour. Occipital lobe. I would estimate a life expectancy of six months, at most." Loki's voice is cold, clinical, and Tony stares at him, unable to say anything at all. Loki clenches his fists at his side, setting his jaw. "What was the point of it? What's the point of _saving_ her if she's going to die anyway?"

"It's okay," Tony says softly, and Loki's gaze becomes fiery, his breathing heavy.

"You think I _care_? About that pathetic little girl, I could—"

"It's okay," Tony repeats, and he puts both of his hands on Loki's shoulders, holding him tightly in place. "Calm down."

"I am calm!" Loki growls, and Tony tightens his grip as he feels Loki's shoulders shake, holding him in his place. Loki trembles visibly, his breaths coming fast and heavy, and he sets his jaw. "I'm going to be—" Tony is already stepping aside, and Loki's light lunch spatters loudly into the pail he conjures from the air at large. Jesus Christ. Where's Steve when you need him?

"You okay?" Clint asks from the doorway, and Tony gives the other guy a _nix_ motion, shaking his head and drawing his hand over his neck, but Clint ignores him, his eagle-eyed gaze on Loki. His whole body convulses as he gags, and when he finally stops, the bucket bleeding away from his hands like a hologram deconstructing, his face is a chalky white. "What happened?"

Loki says nothing. Stares down at the carpet of the little room, and then walks away. Tony heads over to the other side of the room, closing his laptop and putting his notebook on top of it, ready to take them back into Loki's room.

"Is he sick again?" Clint asks, and Tony shakes his head. He turns to look at Clint, pressing his lips together for a moment, and Tony reaches out, touching Clint's shoulder. "Not more allergies?"

"You hear he saved that kid?"

"Yeah."

"She's dying." Barton lets out a low sound, shaking his head, and he runs his hand through his blond hair.

"Shit, man. That's rough. He tell her?"

"No, I don't think so," Tony mutters. "We'll leave him for a while. Let him… Chill. You and him, what's up with that?" Clint sighs.

"He says I'm prone to self-sabotage."

"Your therapist agrees, right?"

"I don't have a therapist."

"You probably should, buddy."

"I'll go if you will," Clint replies, and Tony laughs.

"You got me, Legolas. Let's stay unhealthy together." Clint puts up one first, and Tony – almost without thinking – bumps his own against it. _Doesn't play well with others,_ Tony's ass.

When Steve enters Loki's bedroom, Loki is on the floor in front of his window, his head between his legs, his fingers interlocked against the back of his skull, palms beneath his ears. "Rhodey teach you the brace position?"

"Get out."

"Yeah, I'll go where I want," Steve replies, kicking the door shut behind him. "Vanessa Pearson has a brain tumour?"

"Mmm."

"And you want us to feel sorry for _you_?" Loki's head pops up from between his knees, his pale, chalky face a mask of anger.

"What? _No_ , I—"

"Then walk it the Hell off!" Steve says, and Loki stands, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You listen to me, and you listen to me now. You don't get to decide how long people live. You get a chance to save somebody, you're gonna take it, and you're gonna smile about it afterwards."

"I—"

" _Smile_ ," Steve orders, and Steve feels his stomach turn as Loki's lips curve into a smile, his teeth showing, his thin lips pink in the light. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, which are full of _rage_ , and Steve says, lowering his voice, "You aren't a god any more, Loki. You do the job, you get it done, and that's enough. You hear me? That's all you can do."

"But if it doesn't matter—"

"Loki, it _does_ matter," Steve interrupts him. "Six months doesn't mean anything to you – you have millennia behind you, and I bet you the days feel like nothing to you. But to _her_? To that girl? They could mean everything. You don't kill people any more, okay? And if you have the chance to _save_ somebody and you don't take it, you may as well be killing them. You can stop smiling." The expression bleeds from Loki's face, and Loki reaches up, tracing the curve of his own lips. "I'm not gonna order you to _feel_ good, Loki, but I could. Do you understand me?"

Loki's smile comes back. It's the barest ghost of an expression, and he takes a slow step forward, closing the space between the two of them, and his eyes are alight with energy.

" _What_?"

"I've suddenly found some respect for you," Loki murmurs.

"Suddenly, huh?" Loki is too close. He's barely an inch or two in front of Steve, now, so close that Steve can smell the subtle cologne he's started using, so close that Steve _should_ be able to smell the vomit on his breath, but obviously Loki has washed his mouth out. Probably did it before he lay down on the ground like this. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Are you going to call him?" Loki asks. His eyes shift slightly as they search Steve's face for some sort of response. "Steve?"

"You think I shouldn't?"

"He's certainly handsome," Loki murmurs.

"Not what I asked." Loki's lips part, and he leans in, leans closer, until his lips brush against Steve's, and Loki's mouth is as cold as ice, coming against Steve's own skin like he's just chilled them on something first. Steve feels a tingle start in the base of his spine, but he keeps his expression completely impassive, looking Loki right in the face. Hesitation might not be in Loki's nature, but it shows on his face now.

"May I?" he asks in a whisper.

"You asking me as a friend, or as your commanding officer?"

"We're not friends," Loki says, seemingly reflexively, and Steve begins to walk away, putting his hand on the door – he expects Loki to protest, expects him to say something else, or chase after him, grab him, even. He doesn't.

"You're right," Steve says, and he closes the door behind him.

Loki stands in his bedroom, his arms held loosely in front of his chest, his gaze focused on the door. His mouth is dryer than it ought be, and the room feels uncomfortably hot, clinging to his skin, needling at it.

Loki climbs onto his bed, and he tastes the rejection and the _power_ Rogers had wielded over him at once. Vanessa Pearson couldn't be further from his mind.


	4. Brought To Justice 4

**June 3rd, 2012**

"C'mere," Tony murmurs, and Pepper leans in, smiling as she leans her hands against the table between them, her breath warm and scented with coffee where she puts her mouth over his. Pepper kisses him, and Tony tastes the caramel shot she took in her drink, cupping her cheek and smiling at her with all the warmth in the world. It's a great morning, the sun shining brightly in through the window, and in front of him Tony has a spread of folders, all focused on the Avengers Initiative.

SHIELD has been into him today, with Fury talking to him about taking over the Initiative from SHIELD… Fury had been more than reluctant to let Tony just take up the Initiative for the team, but with Steve pushing it through, it's down to him, now.

And Coulson…

He'd sent flowers to the cellist, offered to fly her in, but she'd said no. Poor girl.

"How's business?" Tony asks, his hands on Pepper's hips, and she smiles at him, her lips plump and glossy. She's using some kind of new stuff – gloss, lipstick, Tony doesn't know – and it makes her even more beautiful than usual.

"How's heroism?" she replies, and Tony groans, gesturing to the folders.

"It's a lot like business." Pepper laughs, patting his cheek and taking up her own spread of folders, her coffee in her hand. "You got meetings?"

"Until four. How about you?"

"I'm driving out to X-Mansion today, probably gonna take the wunderkind with me. And I think Clint and Nat are coming, too," Tony murmurs, running his palm over his beard as he thinks about it. Pepper frowns, tilting her head slightly.

"Clint and Nat? Why?"

"I think 'cause there's space in the car," Tony says, and Pepper lets out a short, huffed laugh before he continues, "I dunno. They're kinda up in the air at the moment – they don't want to take their normal jobs 'cause they're both into the routine of the Avengers thing, I think. Neither of 'em has ever been part of a team like this one before, and they're excited to get into it."

"That's good," Pepper says, and Tony nods his head, slowly.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, it is. I'm just worried about two hours in a car with Loki on one side and them on the other."

"He's not going to say anything," Pepper murmurs, and Tony sighs.

"It's the silence I'm dreading." Pepper pats his shoulder, leans and presses a kiss to his head, and then she walks away, running to catch her eight o'clock. Tony sighs, pushing his meeting notes together, and he glances at his phone.

 **Henry McCoy, 07:25  
Mr Stark, you're new to running a heroes team. Please, don't worry about the meeting at all – we'll talk you through it and get you up to speed, and we even have some resources from older iterations of the Avengers. None of us is expecting you to have the whole world planned to the letter.**

They're not expecting to see _Loki_ exactly either, Tony thinks, but hey. Coming from a guy who's worked on and off with Magneto, Loki almost seems like a walk in the park.

"So you can speak _any language_ , pretty much ever, and read any language, but you can't sign?" Barton demands, and Loki stares at him from the other side of the limousine. Why, precisely, Stark insisted on this method of travel, Loki is uncertain – it strikes him as mildly obscene, particularly when they're going to a _boarding school_ of all places, but then, Loki doubts Stark has spent much time in a normal automobile.

"Why would I be able to speak any Midgardian sign languages?" Loki asks, arching his eyebrows. "It's called the _Allspeak_ , Mr Barton, not the _Allsign_." All of them are rather dressed up for this occasion: Romanov wears a black dress that clings to the lines of her waist and chest, accentuating an easy hourglass figure; Stark wears a pressed suit, and Barton wears a purple shirt that has a _collar_ and everything. Loki hadn't known the man had it in him. Loki himself wears a lilac shirt tucked into white trousers, a floral tie around his neck, and Stark had _groaned_ when he had seen the outfit, but then complimented Loki thrice, so he would guess it's fine enough.

"Yeah, but if it's _magic_ —"

"What about languages with clicks and whistles?" Romanov breaks in.

"They translate just fine. Some words don't, of course – words for specific fruits or vegetables, materials, et cetera. But the Allspeak… It translates the _meaning_ more so than it rewrites the words as I'm hearing them. When I hear any of you speak, I hear English, but the meaning is translated in my own head, I suppose. Which means I can still be aware of connotations, names, et cetera – it's a sort of telepathic magic. If someone talks about, say, _finar_ in the Fon System, even though I'm not familiar with _finar_ itself, I would get the impression of the scent, the sight, of the grain."

"If that's the case, then you should be able to understand sign languages just fine," Romanov says, slowly. "Loads of languages include gestures as part of them, and if it's a telepathic element, an impression, then sign language should be no different."

Loki brings his index finger up to his chin, then brings it outward: _True_.

Barton nearly yells, burying his face in his hands and letting out a garbled sound of frustration, and when Loki grins, he shows all of his teeth, laughing. Romanov is shaking her head, letting out short chuckles, and Loki glances to Stark. Stark is looking between the three of him, his lips quirked into a smile between his obscene patches of sculpted facial hair.

"You spoke ASL this whole time, huh?"

"It's called the _All_ speak," Loki says, not unreasonably, and Barton groans incoherently in his direction. Loki had been worried the journey would be much more uncomfortable than it is, but Romanov has been making polite, measured conversation with Loki, and it is Barton that has brought the levity in the situation with his humorous over-reactions.

"Why do you _lie_?" Barton demands. "There's no reason to! We don't speak sign language in front of you anyway, so we wouldn't risk it – there was nothing to gain! You just, you just _lied_ , for no reason!"

"I didn't lie for no reason," Loki replies. "I lied so you could enjoy unravelling my deception. Through logic alone."

"But that's— Why _that_? We could just play a game!" Loki clucks his tongue, disapproving, and Barton looks askance to Romanov, now speechless, but Romanov just smiles, shoving the archer in the side.

"I don't play games." Loki leans back in his seat, turning to look at Stark once more, and Stark leans in toward him.

"Here," he says, holding something out, and Loki takes it, staring down at it. It's a mobile telephone, much like Stark's own, and Loki stares down at his reflection in the polished, black glass. "So your cell number is on the card stuck to the back, and this is yours now. It's charged, and I'll give you the charger when you're back at the building – it's a pretty standard smartphone, texting, calls, internet, camera. I think you should start an Instagram or something."

"Instagram?" Loki repeats, and he frowns, staring at the screen. "Mr Stark, that hardly seems very _secretive_."

"Well, we're ironing out your paperwork now. Soon, SWORD is gonna give you your alien-on-earth papers, and you're gonna be a real, fake citizen of the US of A. Besides, Loki," Stark murmurs quietly, "It'll look better if you're… You know. Integrating. It's great to do like, Wikipedia stuff—"

"So many of the articles are so _badly_ written—"

"It's a community encyclopaedia, your highness, I don't know what you expect," Stark says, shaking his hand for Loki to close his mouth, and Loki does, feeling the weight of the phone in his hand. "But you know, even just Facebook, or Twitter… Shit, even if you made some kinda weird blogging site or something."

"If there's some sort of injunction," Loki murmurs, holding the phone in his hand, "You want there to be tangible, documentable proof that I'm accepting my place on Earth." It makes complete sense to Loki, and yet the social media of Earth… It is not something he is entirely comfortable focusing upon, not something he thinks he would be naturally inclined to. Perhaps merely something private – that is an option, isn't it?

"Exactly. It's not an order – me and Steve talked about it, and we're not gonna like, _make_ you do social media or anything. Hell, Cap won't even let me give him a phone yet. But you need to make _some_ kinda presence. Loki, there's a reason we're taking you with us to the Mansion – people are gonna find out eventually that you're one of us now, and we can't really risk _trying_ to keep it a secret." Loki draws his thumb over the phone's smooth, cool touch screen, and he looks at the screen that comes up.

"I'm going to have to take this apart," Loki murmurs. "Make some improvements."

"I _slaved_ over that phone for you, Loki—"

"Interesting choice of words." Stark's eyes widen, his lips parting for a second, and Loki smiles before pointing out, "I did it to the laptop." Something changes in Stark's expression, some sort of irritation bubbling to the top – he doesn't like the implication that he may not be the most competent engineer in the room, Loki thinks, and it might amuse him were it not so _patronising_.

"You took my laptop apart?" Stark asks, lowly, and Loki raises his eyebrows.

"You said it was _my_ laptop," he says mildly, and Stark presses his lips together, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning away from him.

"Look, Loki, no _offence_ , but you're not exactly an engineer. You can't—" Loki turns away from Stark, looking to Romanov and Barton. He meets Romanov's gaze, looking into her deep eyes.

"Is this _mansplaining_?" Loki asks. Beside him, Stark splutters, irritated and indignant, but Romanov just slowly nods her head. The limousine comes to a stop, revealing the open grounds of the manor, and Loki reaches for the door, sliding out. "Read my file, Stark," Loki advises, and he holds the door open for Barton and Romanov.

It is a beautiful summer's day, shining down upon the green grasses and the gravel road, and when Loki looks up to the windows of the mansion, he can see that the children who are meant to be in their classes are all pressed up, looking down to see what the visitors might _possibly_ be here for.

When Stark exits the vehicle, many of them get very excited indeed, hopping up and down, and Loki smiles slightly, pushing the limousine closed. There are a group of people gathered before the doors of the house: Charles Xavier, Ororo Munroe, Henry McCoy and Scott Summers. Loki recognizes them all, at a glance.

"Professor Xavier," Stark says, taking a few steps toward the house's doors, and Xavier, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, shakes Stark's hand. Loki has read about him and these _marvellous_ X-Men, of course, and he looks at Xavier where he sits in his wheelchair, looking anything _but_ infirm. His eyes are alight with intelligence, and Loki is almost wary to come forward and shake the man's hand himself, so he hangs back as Romanov and Barton step up, with Stark introducing them. "What, you shy?"

"No," Loki says, and he steps forward, coming away from the car and coming closer. As he does, he can see the beast-like blue figure's yellow eyes widen, see Munroe's expression turn cold, but Xavier's remains quietly paternal, a slight smile on his face.

"Loki, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Professor Xavier," Loki says politely, putting out his hand to shake: the others make no movement to reach for his hand as they did for the others, but Loki says nothing.

"How are you settling in?" Loki can feel the impact of his telepathic energy against his magic. _I wouldn't advise that_ , Loki presses onto the air itself, and Xavier's lips quirk into a deeper smile, his old face a map of wrinkles, showing the years that have passed him by. The depths of Loki's mind are not easy for telepaths to grasp at, as a rule, so full to the brim are the banks of Loki's memories, so strongly felt are his emotions, and he feels Xavier draw back.

 _Wouldn't you?_ he replies.

"Quite well, thank you," Loki says aloud. "Of course, I have a debt to repay."

"You're damned right," says Summers, and Loki looks at him. The sun shines off the plastic-rimmed glasses he wears over his dangerous gaze, as Medusa with her bloodied blindfold, and Loki smiles, wanly, before giving a polite bow.

The others begin to make their way inside, Xavier moving up the ramp at the side of the trio of steps as the others move up into the house, but McCoy remains. He steps forward, and he puts out his right hand to shake: the hand is brightly blue, the palm rubbery and soft, and the back of his hand is thick with fur. Loki takes it, surprised, and shakes it well. McCoy's hand is warm, surprisingly so, but Loki's impassive expression as he surveys McCoy's waistcoat and patterned trousers must unsettle him somewhat.

"What? Never seen a man like me before?" Loki looks at him for a long few moments, then allows the glamour over his skin to fall. Of course, he keeps the eternal masking over the scars on his mouth, his eyes, and around his neck, but he feels the tingle over his flesh as his skin turns as blue as McCoy's own, showing the rough indentations on his skin, the redness of his eyes.

"I've seen something _like_ him," Loki replies, aware that his Jötunn voice has a breathier, raspier element to it, as the tongue itself is longer than that of the Æsir, and thicker. McCoy's yellow eyes flit downward, taking Loki in from head to foot, and then he _smiles_ , genuinely. He has sharp teeth, Loki can see, feline in their make-up.

"Welcome," McCoy murmurs, nodding toward the steps, and Loki falls into step beside him. McCoy does not wear shoes, instead leaving his fur-covered, hand-like feet to tread upon the ground. As feline as McCoy's face is, his hands and feet resemble – in shape – the chimpanzee, and Loki notes this with curiosity, resisting the natural urge to reach out with his magic and _feel_ for McCoy's biology. "Stark didn't tell me you were coming."

"This is something of a trial run, if my information is correct," Loki murmurs, walking alongside McCoy into the house. "My… Service to the Avengers is not yet public knowledge." A few children pass them by, peering up at Loki and McCoy with evident curiosity, but none of them stop to speak, and of course, none of them _recognizes_ Loki.

"The people are going to hate it," McCoy says outright, turning left and coming down a corridor, and Loki nods his head, slowly. "What was it? Mind control? Debt? Villainy?" Loki inhales, slowly, and then says,

"Desperation." McCoy hums.

"Yes, that'll about do it," he says. The man has a pleasant voice, sounding like a kindly, American academic, and Loki doesn't say anything when he realises they are going down corridors they oughtn't – when he realises the others are on the other side of mansion, some way away. McCoy leads him down a set of stairs, then opens the door inward, revealing… Quarters.

Loki glances about the humble living room, and when McCoy gestures for him to take a seat at the dining table, Loki does. There are windows allowing in bright light despite the fact that this level of the mansion is subterranean, and when McCoy holds up a kettle, Loki nods his head to the offer of coffee.

"You know why you're here?" McCoy asks, lowly, as he presses the mug toward Loki's hands. He knows, instinctively perhaps, that Loki doesn't take sugar or milk, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.

"You don't want me near the children," Loki murmurs. "I understand. I didn't realize Stark hadn't told you until I exited his ridiculous limousine." He brings the steaming brew up to his lips, and he feels it settle on his tongue, bitter and dark. It's a rich blend, Moroccan in its origin, and he lets out a quiet sigh. He doesn't _often_ drink coffee, unwilling to allow himself the treat every day as many of the Avengers seem to – the caffeine content is simply not something Loki is used to, and he prefers to stay away from even the mildest of chemical imbalances.

( _"I didn't realise you were gonna be so… Fastidious," Rogers had said, paging through the list Barton had compiled of things Loki refused to eat, and Loki had stood there, embarrassed, until he realised every refusal was being taken into account, and added to a file to keep him from being served that which he wouldn't eat._

 _"So you've said before," Loki had replied. He had known not what else to say.)_

"You have children?" McCoy asks, and Loki inclines his head. It is strange, to look down at his hands and see that his fingers are blue, his fingernails hard and silver-tipped, circular markings coming down even to his wrists and the backs of his hands.

"I used to," he says. "You've read the mythology, I take it, Doctor McCoy?"

"We read all sorts to the children here," McCoy answers, finally settling down at the table himself, and he puts a set of biscuits upon the table, but all of them are sugary-sweet, and Loki politely keeps his hands to himself. "I've read a few versions of most of the world's myths at this point."

"Some of it is more correct, some of it is less so," Loki says. "Six children. All mine. I wouldn't hurt them, Doctor McCoy – but then, my assurances don't mean much."

"You know the death toll for New York, Loki?" McCoy asks.

"Thousands," Loki murmurs.

"You feel guilty?" Loki smiles, looking at McCoy and examining him, his head tilting to the side. McCoy is a kindly gentleman, from what Loki has learned in reading about him – kind, and warm, and firm, when needs be.

"The blame is upon me, Doctor McCoy," Loki says delicately. The coffee is hot in his throat, so _strange_ in this skin he is ill-used to, and he feels it bubbling in his belly, at odds with the natural _homeostasis_ of the Jötunn form. "The deaths that occurred, occurred. The horrors I caused, I have caused. This link with the Avengers… I believe Captain Rogers has called it a _rehabilitation_. I will do what I can."

"You think people will forgive you?" McCoy asks.

"No," Loki replies. "Not unless the peoples of this planet are more _foolish_ than once I thought." McCoy opens his mouth to go on, but there is a knock at his door, and McCoy moves to open it, standing in the doorway.

"Professor Xavier said to come get you," says a quiet voice. "And the other guy. Who is he?"

"Thank you, Mr Jenkins," McCoy replies mildly.

"Yeah but—"

"Goodbye, Harry," McCoy murmurs, and he turns to look to Loki. "We should—" Loki stands, and the light bleeds from his body all at once, leaving him entirely invisible. "Oh. That _is_ convenient."

"I do try," Loki replies, and he sets his mug down on the ground. McCoy touches his shoulder as he comes closer, rather _surprising_ Loki with how comfortable he is navigating invisibility. "You believe in redemption, Doctor McCoy?"

"I'm afraid I do," he replies quietly, and allows Loki to follow him out into the hallway.

Tony taps his nail against the desk. He sits with Clint on his right, Natasha to his left: across the table, Scott Summers stares him down. "You wanna tell me where my guy is?"

"Henry has taken him aside," Xavier says, quietly. "I thought we'd discuss a few things _without_ him in the room. For example – why is he here?"

"He's one of us now," Tony says breezily. "What, you got a problem?"

"With someone who killed a thousand people in three days? _Yeah_ ," Munroe says, smacking her palm against the table. "We have a problem."

"Isn't your guys' whole thing about _rehabilitating_ super villains?" Clint asks, arching his eyebrows and looking smoothly between Summers, Munroe and Xavier. "'Cause no offence, I know he doesn't _live_ here, but Magneto—"

"That's complicated, and you know it," Summers says, bitingly. Tony knows without knowing that he says it just to protect Xavier, whose lips are quirked into an _infuriatingly_ knowing smile.

"This is complicated too," Tony replies. Xavier looks at him for a long few moments, and Tony wonders if _this_ , this is what telepathy feels like, if Xavier is reading his mind _right now_ and it doesn't feel like anything at all. "He won't hurt anybody – he _can't_. There's, uh, a Harry Potter life debt situation kinda going on. Magic, shmagic, whatever. But Loki isn't why we're here: we're here to talk about sharing resources, and mobilising teams. And I want him _here_ , at this table, or we're leaving right now."

"Have one of the students collect Hank, Scott," Xavier says mildly. "He's in his quarters."

"You can send a message, Prof, just—"

"Scott," Xavier says delicately, and Summers turns on his heel, stalking from the room and out into the corridor, the door slamming behind him. Xavier wheels over to the table, leaning back in his chair to look at Tony from across the table, and he says, "We're more than willing to share resources with you. It's useful for there to be a network between teams. Is this new initiative still headed by SHIELD?" Tony frowns, looking between Xavier and Munroe, but both of their expressions are completely impassive, and he slowly shakes his head.

"No," Tony says. "No, they're not. The initiative is under my management now, and Captain Rogers is gonna lead the team in the field." Xavier and Munroe share a small glance, and then Xavier nods, setting out a few files upon the table.

"Very well," he says. "Let us negotiate, then." Tony frowns, trying to put the SHIELD thing into context in his head, but it doesn't come.

"Jesus Christ," Clint says beside him, and Tony turns to look at Clint at first, then follows his gaze. Beside Henry McCoy, there's a tall man with shining black hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, and his skin is soft blue, his eyes thick with a protective, red lens. There are even _horns_ growing from beneath his hair, just beginning, and it isn't until Tony's gaze drops lower, taking in the white pants, the tie decorated with flowers, that he realises what he's looking at – _who_ he's looking at.

"My apologies," Loki says, his skin already turning back to pale white as he takes his seat beside Natasha, his hands neatly folded in his lap. "Doctor McCoy and I were bonding over our shared aesthetics."

"Colour schemes," Xavier says warmly, seeming full of humour. "What a thing to bond over."

They return to negotiations, discussions. Loki remains in place, utterly silent, and doesn't say a word for the rest of the time they're there.

"Best that I take on the Jötunn form, whilst I am here," Loki murmurs in Stark's ear, and Stark turns to glance at him. Is it fear on his face, Loki wonders? Is it disgust? Throughout the discussions, Loki had remained quiet, and despite Stark's words – that the word must get out _somehow_ , that Loki's status cannot remain secret, he feels vulnerable, and uncomfortable, with showing his face about children who might _know_ to be frightened of him. It is weak of him, perhaps. _Certainly_ , it is.

"That— That's real?" Stark asks.

"That's what I look like, yes," Loki murmurs. "For a shapeshifter, Mr Stark, the reality of one's _true form_ is ever debatable, but that is my base form, if you will. It unnerves you… You thought the Jötnar were as the Æsir and Vanir, outwardly resembling humanity." Loki's illusion bleeds away once again, leaving him as what he _is_ , with some small adjustments. "I hate to disappoint you."

"It's not that," Stark murmurs. "It's not that you _look_ like an alien, just— You said you didn't know you were a Jotunn, not until a few years ago. So, what, you didn't _know_ you looked like that?"

"Odin's magic sealed it from my knowledge," Loki murmurs. "I knew so much as _suspected_." _There_ is disgust on Stark's face, now, curling his lip and twisting his nose, and he puts his hand on Loki's shoulder: his hand is warm.

"You take whatever form you want," he murmurs, tone firm. "And Odin— God, what a fucking _monster_." He spits out the words, astounding venom crossing over his lips, and Loki finds himself staring at him for the longest few moments, astonished. Never has someone criticized Odin so freely to him, so easily – and with such _language_ …

"Thank you," he murmurs, and he follows Stark as they make their way into the main part of the building, taking the seats in the living room. Stark takes a seat in a winged armchair, ever needing to put across control, and Loki settles on the lefthand arm, his back straight, one ankle crossed over the other. Romanov is speaking with two younger mutants Loki recognizes not – an extremely tall man, seemingly crafted of steel, and a smaller, dark haired girl that leans against him as they speak – and Barton is speaking in rapid, easy sign with Xavier, who is nodding and speaking occasionally. Even Stark looks at home in the strange room, lazily sending a few texts before engaging McCoy in conversation, and Loki stands, quietly excusing himself before moving outside.

His hands in his pockets, Loki takes a slow, easy walk down the path of the Westchester grounds, reaching up and drawing the ribbon out of his hair, so that it settles loosely on his shoulders, brushing against his upper arms.

( _"You don't braid it," Rogers had said. "Isn't that a big thing, for vikings?" Loki had considered correcting him, but Rogers had a little smirk on his face, and it was plain he was jesting._

 _"I never liked braiding my hair," Loki had replied. "The Jötnar don't, you know. It is considered bad for the growth and shine of one's hair to tie it up in knots, and they hate the idea of looking like the Æsir in any way."_

 _"Huh," Rogers had murmured, and then nodded his head.)_

Loki rolls the shirt sleeves up to his elbow, feeling the heat of the waning sun on his skin. They had arrived some time past one o'clock, and it is now late in the day – the traffic had been rather bad today, and he supposes it will be somewhat better on the way back… He hopes, at least. He walks at least a mile over the lightly sloping fields of green, green grass, and it feels… _Freeing_.

When he reaches the treeline, Loki stops, glancing over the grounds the X-Mansion is settled on, farther up the hill. Paths run off in each direction, and Loki knows there are miles upon miles of grounds for the young children to play on, and for X-Men to train upon, but he hardly wishes to _explore_. He had merely wished to be outside.

There is something cathartic about being out in the dying sun, feeling the evening breeze upon his skin: Loki smells summer blooms and wild fruits on the air, and the scent of freshly mowed grass is thick in his nose and upon his tongue. Being _here_ , amongst nature, is so much more comfortable than the bustling cities of New York, and for a second – a bare second, that is all he will allow himself – Loki lets himself imagine he is back in Asgard, out at the edge of the great wood in which he and Thor had played as children.

There is a vibration in his pocket, and Loki removes the phone.

 **UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:16  
its tony. u okay?**

 **LOKI, 19:16  
Yes. I am out upon the grounds – my apologies, I merely needed the air.**

 **UNKNOWN NUMBER, 19:18  
dw abt it. We r heading out in like, t-10**

 **LOKI, 19:18  
Very well. I'll begin my return.**

Out here, in Westchester County, there is hardly any worry about being seen, and so to speed his promenade he takes upon the air, his footsteps touching upon it as easily as they might ground or stair. Loki has Skywalked since he was a child, and it is his most _basic_ , intrinsic magic, even before his illusions and his shapeshifting – strange, that this should equally be the magic he finds the most exciting.

He climbs the invisible stairway up into the air, until he is surveying the X-Mansion's sprawling grounds from far above, taking the bird's eye view. The grounds are _beautiful_ , and Loki even sees a lake on the other side—

( _"Skywalking, huh? What's that?"_

 _"Like flight, but more controlled. I walk upon the air, as it were."_

 _"Huh." Rogers had murmured, and made a note on the page.)_

He begins his descent, and when he comes into sight of the entrance hall, everyone is gathered on the steps once more.

"You can _fly_?" Summers barks out.

"As well as you can see, I should wager," Loki replies. "I might not _see_ your eyes, Mr Summers, but that does not mean I disbelieve their existence."

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Such a _pleasure_ to meet you, Mr Summers," Loki says, taking Summers by the left shoulder and forcing his hand into his, shaking it firmly. Summers seems surprised at having someone come so easily into his space, leaning back, but loosely shaking Loki's hand nonetheless. Munroe is watching him, her dark eyes focused on him, and Loki gives a low and princely bow, his posture perfect – isn't it always? To think, that there is so much royalty to be found in this strange city, and yet—

Perhaps she embraces her blood. Perhaps not. Who is to say?

"A pleasure to meet you, your highness," he murmurs, and Munroe's lip twitches before she offers him her hand. He takes it, feeling the warmth of it, and most of all, feeling the _storm_ within her – her energy is not dissimilar to Thor's, and for a second, Loki's very heart leaps in his chest.

"Good to meet you too," Munroe murmurs. "You going to be good?"

"I'm going to try," Loki says.

"Tony tells me you're going to make a Facebook," McCoy murmurs, taking Loki's hand in each of his own, and he says, "You should add me."

"Should I?" Loki asks, surprised by how so _insignificant_ a gesture should mean to him, and he inclines his head. "I will, Doctor McCoy."

"Call me Hank."

"Henry," Loki assents, and McCoy's laugh is low and resonant. His hands are so warm on Loki's own, and yet it is nothing to the _genuine_ warmth the other man radiates, wave by wave, easily. "Thank you," he says, surprised by the genuine feeling in his own words, and Henry pats him on the shoulder before turning and making his way into the house.

 _We should have a talk_ , says a voice at the edge of Loki's mind, and he turns to Xavier, meeting his gaze. _You sure you don't wish to stay the night?_

 _Is that a proposition?_ Loki replies, and he moves, snakelike, toward Xavier's chair, leaning and putting one hand over each of Xavier's, his head tilting.

"Hey!" Summers says, but Xavier laughs, and he reaches up, patting Loki's cheek. Henry is already drawing Summers away, clucking his tongue and shaking his head: for an old man, growing infirm in his age, Xavier doesn't seem _upset_ by Loki's mockery.

"You know very well what it was," Xavier replies, and Loki chuckles himself, leaning back and standing properly before Xavier.

"I do," Loki says. "You are hungry for knowledge, Professor, that you do not have. You have touched the minds of ancients and immortals alike, and yet you crave more. Easily might I comprehend a feeling I have long-since nursed within me. You know as well as I do what would happen if I gave you what you wanted – your mind would turn to slurry, and bleed from those ears as liquid."

 _We should have a talk regardless,_ Xavier says, his lips smiling, and unmoving. _You'll give Henry your phone number?_ Loki nods his head, slowly, and he reaches out, taking Xavier's hand once more.

 _You and Henry share a fatal flaw,_ Loki thinks, even as he turns away from Xavier and holds the door open for Barton, Romanov and Stark, allowing each of them to get in before himself. Xavier's gaze remains on Loki, his intelligent eyes unblinking.

 _Oh?_

 _You know the truth, and yet you choose to hope instead. Why is that?_ Loki slips into the limousine, closing the door shut behind him, and yet he feels Xavier's presence there beside him nonetheless, feels his energy, hears his voice.

 _Because we're human, Loki. Will you join us in that, I wonder?_ Loki closes off his mind, the energy at the edge of it clouding over, and he looks out of the frosted glass of the window as the Westchester countryside passes them by.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asks, looking at Stark, and Stark nods his head.

"Did you?" The question confuses him, annoys him, and so he ignores it. Stark lets him.

 _"May I?"_

The words play in Steve's head like a litany, and he feels the heat in his arms as he brings himself down to the ground again and again, pushing up and away from it. Jesus Christ, it's been two fucking months of _being alive again_ , and his girl is dying in a hospital bed, stuck with IVs, dying of old age; all of Steve's friends are dead, and the city itself is different around him, and he says _May I?_

 _He's in the same boat as you, you know,_ says a low voice in the back of his head, a voice of reason: it sounds like Abraham Erskine, accent and everything, and Steve feels a burning nausea settle in the belly. _No? You don't think so? Alone in a foreign city, deaths behind him, regrets?_

 _Our situations aren't the same._

 _No, they aren't. You can choose to leave: he can't._ Steve jumps up from the ground, and he begins to rail punches down on the steel-reinforced punching bag Nick Fury had sent over: he's replaced the chain twice today already, and soon, he'll need to replace it again. Steve punches it again and again and again, feeling the sick burn in his knuckles, feeling the bile in the back of his throat.

Loki's lips, freezing cold against Steve's own, and Steve remembering the _cold_ again, the ice! He punches the bag so hard that the casement _bursts_ , and bent steel cuts the back of his fingers to the bone, making him hiss out a sound and come away from the punching bag, reaching for some kitchen towel to stem the bleeding.

He shakes his head, walking up the stairs toward the main halls, and it's just as Tony's returning from Westchester.

"What'd you do to your hand?" Tony asks, and Steve just groans, shaking his head.

"Got a bit aggressive with that punching bag. Punched straight through the steel. Loki!" he calls down the hall, gripping his torn fingers a little tighter and ignoring the pain. "How were the X-Men?"

"They were great," Tony admits, shrugging his shoulders. "A little, uh, apprehensive about him at first, but— You haven't met Henry McCoy, but the guy's got a soft spot for people like Loki. And Xavier…"

"I know Xavier," Steve says lowly, and he turns to Loki, who is looking at him with uncertainty on his marble features. "Can you heal this?" Loki looks down at Steve's hand, and for a second Steve thinks he's going to try to refuse, say something like _I can,_ and try to walk away, but he takes Steve's hand in his palm, magic tingling over his flesh and repairing the cuts.

"You should let me make a punching bag," Loki says softly. "One you can use – one _I_ could use. It would take me some time, but I—"

"Do it," Steve says, nodding his head. "That everything?" A shadow passes over Loki's face. Turning on his heel, he walks away without another word, and Steve watches him go, his lips pressed together. Tony is staring at him like he just kicked a damn puppy, and Steve says, " _What_?"

"Steve," Tony says, "You can't just _do_ that. You didn't even thank the guy."

"I'm not gonna have this conversation right now," Steve says, crumpling up the towel and throwing it into the trashcan at the side of the kitchen. "Tell me about the meeting." Tony seems hesitant, as if he wants to chew Steve out for not wanting Loki _near_ him right now, but he backs down, and he talks shop.

It's great stuff, all of it, even if Steve _doesn't_ trust Charles Xavier, but Tony seems unwilling to ask about that either, and Steve wonders if he's really that much more perceptive than his father, or if he trusts Steve that little. They talk for an hour or so, and Steve knows there's a lot more to go over, but for now…

The X-Men are gonna give them resources, government contacts, links to other superhero teams, even trade-offs when teams don't work out. It's all _good_ , and yet… It doesn't feel like enough. As Steve walks away, he thinks about the punching bag downstairs, thinks of the blood on the leather.

He's knocking on Loki's door before he knows it, and the door opens. Loki looks at him, his expression completely impassive, expectantly. After a long pause, he says, "No orders, Captain?"

"What happened to _Steve_?" he asks, and Loki moves to shut the door in his face, but Steve's hand catches it before he can close it shut. "Can I come in?"

"I don't know," Loki says archly. "It's hardly my decision, is it? Mr Stark owns what paltry _possessions_ I might foolishly lay claim to, and you possess _me_. Why should you ask me such a question as _can you_ when you know that you _can_?" Loki walks away from Steve, moving into his rooms, and Steve shuts the door behind him as he follows Loki in.

"That's what it was about, huh?" Steve asks, "What, you try to mount a seduction so that I'll order you around less? That what you want?"

"No," Loki says. He says it emphatically, singularly, and says nothing else.

"Did you think _I_ wanted it? Was your magic trying to get you to anticipate some—"

"No." Loki is holding his hands in front of him, and his thumb and forefinger rub into the muscle packed onto his slim hands, the anxious movement serving to send blood flush into the pale skin.

"Did—"

" _Please_ ," Loki says. "Stop it. I was wrong to make such an advance: you soundly rejected it. Let us move on." He looks like an animal, trapped in a cage, and Steve takes a slow, careful step forward: Loki steps away from him. Steve takes another step forward, and another, until Loki is backed right against the fake window of his bedroom, and he is trying to keep his gaze on the ground, trying to ignore Steve's stare, until Steve pushes him in the chest and Loki _has_ to look up.

"You can't _do_ that," Steve says, very quietly, and then says, "Do you know why? Do you need me to tell you why?" Steve doesn't wait for Loki to reply, and he says, "Because you can't _really_ say yes, or no, to me. Because if you don't _want_ something, you couldn't say no."

" _So_?"

"What the Hell do you mean, _so?_ You want me to make you do things you don't wanna do?"

"You already do," Loki says. "What's the difference?" Steve stares at him, _stares_ at him, and he sees only genuine confusion, bafflement, _hurt_ in Loki's face, and Christ, that's just not _normal_. He turns away, putting his hand on his head, and he swallows the bile that rises all the faster in his throat.

"They're different, Loki," Steve murmurs. "Me making you save lives, be an Avenger – that's for a greater good. I'm not ordering you around because I _like_ it, or because I _want_ it: I'm doing it because it's what I have to do. "I don't want to order you to…" he trails off, shaking his head.

"I believe the _point_ is that you're not ordering me," Loki murmurs. "Others in your position would jump at the chance to—"

"Yeah, well others _aren't_ in my position," Steve snaps, and Loki stares at him. His fingernails are digging the meat of his hand, now, so deeply they leave crescent marks in the skin, and Steve reaches out to pull his hands apart before he can draw blood. Loki lets him, his wrists limp in Steve's hands. "Don't hurt yourself," Steve murmurs. "Don't do that, Loki."

"Captain Rogers—"

" _Loki,"_ Steve interrupts him, emphatically. "You can call me Steve, if you want." Loki's Adam's Apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.

"Captain Rogers," Loki continues in the smallest of voices. "They're all just so _young_. But you—"

"What?" Loki's lips part, his eyes shining for the barest second, and then the illusion comes right back, and Loki pulls his arms protectively over his chest. " _What_?"

"I don't belong here," Loki murmurs. "Much as you are unwilling to admit it, Captain Rogers, nor do you. They waited until they needed you, and they broke you out of that ice, to use you as a tool – as much as me." Steve sets his jaw, staring down at Loki. It's surprisingly perceptive, some of the shit he says, and especially given that it's coming out now, when Steve _knows_ he isn't saying it to manipulate him. "How does it feel?"

"Shitty," Steve replies. "How about yourself?"

"Much the same."

"I can walk away, Loki," Steve murmurs. "You can't." Loki laughs, shaking his head.

"Of course you can't. Just because there isn't magic _binding_ you doesn't mean you truly have a choice. You are in the debt of a Cold War operative who has yet to realise his war is over; you are in the lap of a new century. You are a soldier for a country that no longer _exists_ , not as it once did. If you think you have any more choice than I do, you are a fool as much as you are a patriot." It should piss Steve off, to hear Loki talk like this, to hear him take him to pieces just to lay him out with labels on the page, like a diagram in Loki's stupid notebook, and yet… "And even if you had a choice before, you don't any more. Here I am: your final shackle." Loki reaches up, and his hand touches Steve's cheek. His hand is freezing cold, as if a statue has touched him, but before Steve can say anything, Loki draws his hand away, and Steve's face is cool on one side, flushed with heat on the other.

"It's different, Loki," he repeats.

"I believe you," Loki says, and he begins to undo his tie. "Good night— Steven."

"Nobody calls me that."

"I do," Loki replies evenly, and Steve stares at him for a second, then smiles, grimly. "Mr Stark says I'll get my papers this week."

"So?"

"I don't know what name to write on the form."

"Loki?"

"They want a surname. I have two to choose from: _Odinson, Laufeyson_. Which brush do I tar myself with?" Steve frowns, pressing his lips together, then takes a few steps back, moving toward the door.

"Pick something new. It's your name, after all."

"Really? I believe someone informed me _my name_ belonged to him." _He's asking me permission_ , Steve realizes, all at once, and he feels guilt churn in his chest – hasn't he got enough guilt to deal with? Does he really need _more_?

"Sounds like he was just pissed he'd been backed into a corner," Steve replies. "Real dick, that guy."

"Oh, I agree," Loki says, carefully undoing the cuffs of his shirt. "Good night, Steven."

"Good night, Loki," Steve replies, and he pulls the door shut behind him – and promptly presses his face against the cool wood, smelling the varnish, smelling the new paint, now dried against the door. He takes out the phone he'd taken from Pepper that morning, and he types in a text.

 **Steve Rogers, 21:43  
You wanna go for a drink?**

 **Sam, 21:43  
Thought you'd never ask.**


	5. Brought To Justice 5

**June 11th, 2012**

Loki's hand slams against the timer, and Maximoff's moves so quickly that it brushes against his own: Loki's next move is finished before Maximoff can move his hand away, and Maximoff laughs at the smack against the back of his hand, pushing his palm into the timer.

"Foul!" he says as he moves his knight, and Loki takes it with a bishop's shift that makes Maximoff groan, then laugh even more.

"Check mate," Loki says, and Maximoff knocks his king over, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. The _five second_ time they'd set each other per move had quickly been shifted down to two, and this is the third game in a row that Loki has won, despite Maximoff's speed. "You may be an admirable mathematician, Mr Maximoff, but chess is more than calculation."

"So I see," Maximoff replies. Stark had described the man as cold when he had brought Wanda aboard to the Avengers Initiative, but perhaps Loki is simply colder: Pietro Maximoff lacks much of the characteristic impatience and bite that Loki had been warned of, and although Loki cannot _possibly_ experience time as he does (he feels minutes as hours!), he can be speedy enough, if need be. "You call Xavier?"

"How did you know he asked me to?" Loki asks, beginning to set the pieces into their tray, and Maximoff picks up his pawn, holding it up. The pawn rests upon Maximoff's thumb, held in place by his finger. His skin is lighter than his sister's, but it is a soft and dusky brown, and the contrast against his silver hair is extreme.

"Let's just say the pawn knows its player," he says, tossing it in amongst the other pieces, white amidst a dash of black. "No matter which way the board is turned around."

"Not yet," Loki answers, setting the board – which creates a sort of lid – over the casket of the chess board. "I shan't be making a _Facebook_ until I have my hearing later this evening."

"SWORD's making you a citizen of Earth. How's it feel?" SWORD. These Midgardians so love their acronyms, don't they? _Sentient World Observation and Response Department_. So ridiculous.

"I can think of greater honours," Loki says lowly, banishing the chessboard to his bedroom with a flick of his wrist, and Maximoff chuckles, darkly. In a flash, he has his phone in his hand, rapidly tapping out a message and sending it off, and then the phone is gone again. "I'm hardly in a position to refuse."

Maximoff wears a sheer, pink shirt that clings to his abdomen and his shoulders, evidently carefully fitted to his body, tucked into obscenely tight grey trousers – but then, Loki imagines it's difficult to _not_ have tight trousers, when Maximoff has such a narrow waist and such muscular thighs. He leans forward, and when he does so, the chain about his neck comes slightly loose, hanging out from his open shirt collar. "Guess you're not. They're gonna put you in the field afterwards, right?"

"Yes," Loki murmurs. He reaches out, catching the golden medallion that hangs from the chain, and he feels its cool weight upon his fingers, shining in the light. The Star of David rests in the centre of a circle of gold, its six points set equally about the curve. "It's beautiful," he says softly.

"It's important," Maximoff replies. "Sometimes, the two are the same. You should be careful with him. Xavier." Loki places the medallion gently beneath the fabric of Maximoff's shirt, leaning away from him, but Maximoff doesn't so much as flinch at the sudden intimacy. Instead, he studies Loki as if Loki is some sort of complex equation to be worked out, as if Loki himself is a visible enigma. "He's a better chess player than me, Loki."

"You should return to the X-Factor," Loki says mildly. "Your coffee break is nearly over. Doesn't twenty minutes go _fast_ when you're having fun?"

"See you," Maximoff says, and just like that, he isn't there. Loki stands from the table in the common area, moving into his quarters. Leaving the door ajar, he removes his casual shirt, which is emblazoned with a vine pattern, and reaches for a light blue shirt, pulling it on instead. He should rather appear in a proper suit before the SWORD committee, and they are soon to set out.

"You ready?" calls a voice from the door, and Loki glances to look at Steven, even as his fingers dance up the buttons of the shirt, setting them closed. He _isn't_ wearing a suit: he wears a soldier's formal uniform, epaulettes on his shoulders, a medal over his heart. He looks ridiculous, but Loki does not say so.

"I just need my tie and jacket," Loki says, reading for a tie of darker blue, and Steven clucks his tongue.

"Grey suit, huh?" Steven asks. "What, you trying to convince them you're gonna get a mortgage and a dog?"

"I'm trying to convince them I'm not a _threat_ ," Loki replies, and Steven takes a few steps forward, snatching the navy tie out of Loki's hand and setting it back into the basket with his other ties, instead drawing out a tie decorated with snakes – a sarcastic gift from Barton, not two weeks ago. " _Steven_ , I might as well emblazon "traitor" on my forehead." Rogers ignores him, tying the tie around Loki's neck with firm, unwavering hands, and perhaps were Loki a weaker man, he might be uncomfortable at having the other man so very _close_ to him, when he has refused Loki so easily.

"They don't have to believe you're not a traitor," he says. "They have to believe _I'm_ not. Is grey really your colour?"

"Morally?" Steven narrows his eyes, and Loki says, "It brings out my eyes."

"What, you're gonna _seduce_ the SWORD committee? Good _luck_." Loki follows Steven from the room, his hands in his pockets as he follows the other man down the stairs. There is a car waiting for them, but mercifully, it is not a limousine, and Loki slides onto the seat in the back of the car, clipping the belt over his chest.

"How're you feeling?" asks Sam Wilson from the driver's seat, and Loki sighs, slowly.

"Fine," he says. "How are you, Mr Wilson?"

"Good, good. No more Hamish, huh? Shame. I kinda liked that guy." Loki watches Wilson for a few moments, and then he nods his head, his lips twitching slightly as he settles his hands in his lap and looks out of the window. New York passes them by in a haze of tall buildings and traffic, and Loki staves down the anxiety in his belly.

"And can you explain for us, Mr… Bölson, how does the spell in question work?" Abigail Brand is a beautiful woman, her hair coming down in thick, green waves around her shoulders, her suit black. She's the leader of SWORD, and Steve had been kinda surprised to see her sitting on this committee – theoretically, this handing over of papers is just a formality, but Steve isn't going to take _anything_ for granted. Especially not if Brand is right here.

"Magic is, if you will, a force of power in the universe. Constant, ephemeral, unavoidable, even by those who do not use it or have a sense for its presence: it has its own set of laws, rules. Different cultures develop different ways of harnessing magic, but the magic itself has a set of laws that are ever inextricable from its practice, including the way it responds to a particular individual. Odin Borson has effectively bound my magic against me: the spell powers itself, and because my magic is so much a part of my very core, it is impossible to escape."

"And what would happen if you lost your magic for some reason?" Brand asks. Steve looks at Loki as he blinks at the question, showing surprise.

"Well, I would die," he replies. The committee is silent for a moment, and Loki adds, "Magic is part of my very lifeblood, Ms Brand. Were my magic to be taken from me, were I to lose my ability to command it, I would become quite ill indeed, and would likely perish within days. Imagine a human foregoing oxygen, or food, or water, entirely."

"And if Captain Rogers ordered you to give up your magic, would you do it?"

"I'd be forced to."

"Would you want to?"

"Of course not."

"What if you wanted to kill somebody, and he said not to?"

"I wouldn't be able to."

"What if you just… Let them die?"

"I'm afraid the spell isn't bound in language, Ms Brand. I cannot pray and wait for a loophole, then attempt to snake my way through it. The magic translates the, ah, the _meaning_ of the command – I have been made _well_ aware that allowing an individual to die before me is tantamount to murder." Loki's tone is even, quiet, and Steve finds himself surprised at how well Loki seems to be taking this whole… Thing. It's all bureaucracy, completely different to anything he's ever experienced before, and yet he seems just fine.

"And Böl, who is Böl? We've heard you named Odinson before this point, Mr Bölson, and yet now you choose this name. Why is that?" asks a grey-skinned gentleman with heavy ridges upon his face, and Loki inclines his head.

"Böl and I have a… Long-standing, but near-constant relationship. I should be uncomfortable discussing the full nature of our connection, but suffice it to say, it is a more accurate name to me than Odinson, or even Laufeyson, Farbautison – these being my true parents, of Jötunheimr."

"We have other names we expected," the grey-skinned man continues, his voice silky. "Silvertongue, Liesmith…"

"Unusual names that draw attention," Loki interrupts. "Bölson is quiet, unassuming, and noticeably foreign, but with no underlying threat."

"Are you worried about being read as a threat, Mr Bölson?" Brand asks, quietly.

"I led an invasion upon this planet, Ms Brand: most certainly I am. Even as _neutered_ as I now am, I would be a fool coming to this table expecting your whole-hearted trust, let alone that of the peoples of Earth. I can only assure you – speaking as I am, under oath, with Captain Rogers' orders affirming that oath – that I did not wish to invade the planet as I did, and am now accepting my place as a man seeking to repay his debt." Steve's eyes narrow slightly, trying to unpack that particular line, but it seems to assuage the council, and Brand moves onto the next question.

"How are the Jötnar perceived, in the wider universe?"

"Barely at all," Loki says. "The Jötnar do not embrace the necessity of intergalactic multiculturism: they take to isolation, instead, the vast majority of their society remaining upon their own planet. They are a deeply private people, living as they do amidst the cold and ice, and very few other planets are even aware that they exist, barring the other parts of the Nine Realms. They devote themselves to magic, to poetry, and to their own rituals, and they avoid others who may disrupt those rhythms."

"And how are they viewed within the Nine Realms?" Brand presses.

"As savages," Loki says cleanly. "Uncivilized, undignified. They are – forgive the phrasing, I have not a better word in English for what I mean – dehumanized on a regular basis. The few Jötnar that _do_ leave Jötunheimr make their way far away from the Nine Realms, as they are viewed with fear, superiority and disgust. Many times, I have seen the deaths of Jötnar ordered with a casual ease – their lives are not considered important at all." Brand frowns, leaning back in her seat and placing her hands across his chest.

"Are you proud to be a Jötunn, Mr Bölson?"

"I fear that's rather a complicated question," Loki replies. His voice is slightly shaky now, and Steve leans forwards upon the table, putting his chin on his hands and keeping his gaze on Loki. "The only connection I have to the Jötnar is my blood."

"Your children aren't Jötnar?" Brand asks, arching her eyebrows, and she glances through her papers. "I have it said here that your first wife, Angrbodda—"

"Angrboða," Loki corrects, softly.

"Angrboða was a Jötunn, wasn't she?"

"She was, yes. That is why she was killed by the Asgardian army. Forgive me, I don't see why—"

"Do you hold a grudge against Asgard, Mr Bölson? They've taken your children from you, killed your wife, oppressed the people they took you from, and now they've taken your title away from you, binding you to Captain Rogers here. Who's to say you aren't going to turn around and try to lead the Avengers against Asgard, and risk the Earth in the scuffle?"

"Oh," Loki says. "With the greatest respect for my compatriots, Ms Brand, they are all quite valueless against most species. By no means would they prove useful even as a _distraction_ as I invaded Asgard. I can assure you, regardless, that I would never invade Asgard."

"Why not?" Brand asks, raising her green eyebrows. "You've cast off your name, you've stopped calling Odin your father… Who's to say you wouldn't want to do more?"

"I'm bitter, Ms Brand. I'm angry, and upset, at how I've been treated. But I am _not_ stupid. Any of the Asgardians could kill me easily, if they truly wished to."

"Good," Brand says cleanly, and then says, "Loki Bölson, of Jötunheimr, I hereby welcome you to Earth." She presses a stamp that says **APPROVED** onto the file in front of her, and then pushes it across the table to him. He stares down at it, and Steve glances between them all.

"Is that it?" he asks. "Seriously?"

"That's it," Brand says, leaning across the table to shake his hand, and then Loki's. "Have a good day, guys." Her tone is crisp, but not unpleasant, and she gives Steve a loose salute before leading the rest of the committee out of the room: Loki is still staring down at the file, as if surprised to have gotten it.

Steve grins, his hands in the pockets of his uniform, and he takes a step forward, settling his hand on the upper part of Loki's back. He is still looking down at the file even now, his hair hiding his face. "You okay?"

"Yes," Loki says. "Merely— I didn't expect the accusations of future invasions."

"I think they do that with everyone," Steve replies, and Loki nods, taking up the file and clutching it tightly to his chest as he stands up straight.

"Then we— There. I'm legal."

"You don't look too happy," Steve says.

"Happiness has never been something I'm comfortable with," Loki murmurs. Steve isn't sure what to say to that, so he elects to say nothing at all, walking with Loki out into the main hall of the SWORD building. Loki holds the file as if it's about to fall to pieces in his arms, clutching it against himself, and Steve wonders what he's supposed to say here, what he can do to make Loki feel better. "Are we training?"

"Nah," Steve replies. "Take the rest of the day off."

"It's scarcely ten," Loki replies.

"Guess you've got nearly the whole day off, then," Steve replies, and Loki sighs, his lips twitching into the _smallest_ of awkward smiles, and then he nods his head. _I did not wish to_ , he said, about the invasion. What the Hell is the _deal_ there?

Loki sits in front of his laptop, staring at the blue colours on the screen.

First name? Loki.

Last name? Bölson.

Mobile number or email? Loki taps in his mobile number, then his gaze flits downward. _Date of birth_. The earliest date he can put in is 1905, which seems no more ridiculous than one of the _earlier_ years, but… He opens up the file of documentation SWORD had laid out for him, but there is no faux-date of birth outlined for him to use upon forms, and he twists his mouth.

Well, how old does he look, compared to the humans? Forty?

 **Loki, 11:02  
How old do I look?**

 **Anthony Stark, 11:05  
ur kidding rite? Like 3000**

 **Loki, 11:06  
Yes, of course, but how old do I LOOK? By human standards, how would you approximate my age?**

 **Anthony Stark, 11:06  
this is a trick question. If I say u look younger than u think u look, ur gonna take shots at me all nite, and if say u look older, ur gonna say i'm a dick**

 **Loki, 11:07  
You are utterly valueless.**

 **Anthony Stark, 11:07  
love u 2 xoxox**

Loki groans, looking at the other two contacts he has programmed into the telephone – either Rogers, or…

 **Loki, 11:08  
How old do I look?**

 **Pietro Maximoff, 11:08  
Approximately? Between the ages of say, 28 and 32.**

 **Loki, 11:08  
You are a valued friend and compatriot.**

 **Pietro Maximoff, 11:09  
Huh. Don't hear that every day.**

He types in the numerical values with ease: 16th of January, 1981. Perfectly suitable, he thinks, as an age – that makes him 31? Perfectly suitable.

The last question gives him pause.

 _Male or female?_

Loki stares at it, then slowly brings his cursor to the _Male_ option, creating a check in the small circle, and yet… It doesn't feel entirely right. It hardly matters. It's just a social media profile, after all.

"Okay, smartass," Barton says over lunch, and Loki looks at him. He sits directly across from the other man in the centre of the table, with Stark on his righthand side and Samuel Wilson to his left. "So how would _you_ invade the Earth, if my idea is so dumb?"

"My idea does not include marshmallows, Mr Barton, mutated or otherwise, so I hardly see what value my ideas are to you."

"Chop chop!" Barton says through a mouthful of pork gyoza, clapping his palms together. "Impress me!" Barton drops a chopstick onto the floor, curses, and disappears beneath the table.

"I _suppose_ ," Loki says, setting his chopsticks against his bowl and looking at the other man, "That I would begin quietly. Assuming the availability of basic technology, I would create portals between two worlds, creating these portals at the two poles of the Earth, ideally some miles beneath the surface of the ocean. The entire fleet would be snuck in beneath the radio of satellite detection, and would take a great deal of care not to disturb any radar sensors – for a fleet of say, two million ships, I would estimate it would take a month or so to mobilize enough upon the planet, along with another million or so set to invade from outside the atmosphere. Using a series of EMF pulses in the preceding days to the invasion, I would render every satellite about the Earth obsolete, ideally decaying their orbit and sending each of them down to Earth. Busying itself with protecting against falling space debris and unable to mobilize nuclear warheads or even make use of the Earth's most basic communication systems, the fleet would strike."

Barton is staring at him, dumbly. "You could wipe us out like that. Easy."

"There is never any certainty in war, Mr Barton," Loki replies, taking a dumpling from his own plate and bringing it to his laps.

"Why didn't you do that?" Wilson asks from Loki's left, and Loki glances at him, chewing on the dumpling in his mouth and swallowing the carrot and prawn upon his tongue. "He's right – if you could do that quickly enough, it'd be easy to take over the Earth. But you just brought the Chitauri in through the city of New York, where all the heroes kinda _happened_ to be. The plan you went with seems so stupid in comparison."

Loki drinks heavily from his glass of wine, and says nothing. Beside him, he hears Stark change the subject to something else entirely – some sort of scandal in the news, all around a pair of French heroes Loki has never heard of – and Loki focuses on eating his meal instead of joining the conversation.

Washing dishes with a magical ease, he dries and washes them at the same time, settling each of the plates to go into their respective cupboards as he bends into the oven, scrubbing it with a brush and a heavy amount of cleaning products. He rather likes the smell of his bleach, tainted with lemon and leaving a heavy, chemical thickness in his nostrils.

He is aware of Rogers watching him, his gaze on Loki's back, but he says nothing.

"Didn't know you knew how to clean an oven."

"People keep seeming to believe I spent my entire life being waited on, hand and foot," Loki replies, his voice echoing off the sides of the oven. Thick, black pieces of grease and burnt pieces come away upon his hands, leaving his fingers dark and filthy with their ichor, but he doesn't mind. He is used to getting his hands dirty. "I spent much of my life as far away from the palace as possible, and I refused to take servants in either of my marriage homes."

"You like hard work, huh?"

"I'm not well-suited to a sedentary lifestyle, I confess," Loki replies.

"Me neither," Steven murmurs. "Earlier. In front of the SWORD committee…" he trails off, then changes tact. "Did you sabotage the invasion of Earth on purpose?"

"Yes," Loki says.

"Did you do it to save people?"

"Yes," Loki answers. "But not because I shy away from murder. Those deaths meant nothing to me: I merely wished to sabotage the Chitauri. They're monsters, insentient, ever hungry. They would have devoured this world and moved swiftly onto the next if I had fostered their success." He still remembers the cloudy desperation he had felt with that strange _power_ consuming his mind, cutting off his access to his magic, leaving him unable to do anything but obey instructions. _Commands_. A deep voice, echoing across the depths of the universe—

"Did you have a choice?" Steven asks.

"Yes," Loki says, finally. "My choice was to invade Asgard, or Midgard." That voice… Even now, Loki almost feels it at the edges of his mind, calling to his magic, drawing him in. A bitter taste in his mouth, Loki returns to scrubbing the base of the oven, feeling the way the bleach softly burns against his fingers when he scrubs too hard.

"If you didn't have a choice, why did Odin punish you in the first place?"

"Who says I didn't have a choice? I murdered plenty of people, Steven, for the pleasure of doing so. Thousands still died in the invasion, regardless of whatever machinations I might have had in mind." Steven lets out a low, sharp sound, tapping his hands against the counter.

"God, you _want_ people to hate you, don't you? Forget feeling _sorry_ for yourself – you think you fucking deserve it." He sounds so _upset_.

"Forgive me, Captain: I come from a planet where _crime_ equals punishment. Murder, especially, is often seen as rather bad."

"When it's against the right people," Steven says, lowly. "Was anyone ever punished for killing your wife? Was the law on your side?" Loki thinks of Angrboða, her lilac blood tainting the waters, her strong neck open, slashed to pieces. How many times has his wife's death been thrown before his face since he came to this planet? Upon Asgard, no one would _dare_ mention it—

And yet Loki knows the reason why. Why should anybody _fear_ him anymore?

"I was always under the impression Midgardians had a very strong believe in right and wrong," Loki murmurs. He feels uncomfortable with this very conversation, his shoulders stiff, and yet he nearly _aches_ whenever Rogers speaks to him, feels his very magic thrum with a desire to obey, to _please_. And yet it isn't the spell, Loki can feel it: he respects Rogers, despite his ridiculous costume, and he _wants_. Why should he _want_ so? "Why are you so intent on blurring the lines?"

"Because the lines are blurred in the first place. It's about seeing the truth of things," Steven replies. "Why are _you_ so intent on people viewing you as some kind of monster?" Loki turns away from the oven, raises his eyebrows at Steven.

"Put a collar and a leash on a wolf, Captain Rogers. It remains a wolf, no matter how many times you call it a dog, no matter how many tricks you teach it."

"Is that what you think you are?"

"No," Loki answers. The bleach in the oven bubbles and pops as it steams away from the oven's sides, leaving it shining and clean, and leaving the scent of it in the air before Loki's seiðr absorbs it all, setting it aside. "I'm much worse."

"You know what therapy is?" Steven asks. Loki frowns, furrowing his brow as he looks at the other man, and he vanishes the brush in his hands, feeling the bleach come away from his skin. Loki nods his head once, and Steven says, "You want to go?"

"Do _you?"_ Loki retorts, and Steven shrugs. Loki thinks of it, being alone in a room with some _psychologist_ , spilling forth his every traumatic memory and being expected to take them apart, to _heal_ by tearing open the wounds that have long-since scarred.

"Loki," Steven says. "You've got an ID now, right? We're changing up the rules. You don't need an escort anymore – you can walk around the city on your own, if you want to. When you have off-hours, use 'em how you please. Tony's setting up a stipend for you, so you'll have money to spend. Just— You know. No crimes, no assaults, no murders…"

"Define _crime_ ," Loki says.

"Why, what do you want to do?"

"Hustle pool," Loki answers, and Steven laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, his lips parting to show his teeth, and he sits back on the kitchen counter, looking at Loki for a long few moments.

"Who taught you that phrase?"

"Barton," Loki replies, and Steven pushes himself off the table.

"Put some jeans on, and we'll go." Loki frowns, looking down at his trousers, but Steven remains unwilling to budge. "If we go to a dive bar with you dressed like that, neither of us walking out without a fight."

"I bow to your superior knowledge," Loki replies, and the grey cotton turns to form-fitting denim with nary a thought, the fabric changing and shifting in the way it hugs against his hips. Putting his hair up into a messy bun, Loki catches his reflection in the window, undoing his tie and unbuttoning his collar to bare the hollow of his throat to the air. "Have you ever considered a piercing, Steven?" He looks at his reflection in the window pane, studying his own face.

"Piercing?" Steven calls from across the room, even as he pulls his jacket on. "What, like, earrings? Nah. You can't have something like that in a military uniform." Loki looks down at his shoes, and with a thought the black leather fades to red cloth shoes, marked by a white rim of rubber – _sneakers_ , they call them.

"I feel underdressed," Loki mutters, and Steven chuckles.

"We'll get you in a t-shirt one day, I'm sure," he says, and they begin to walk down the stairs toward the entrance of the tower. "You know how to play pool?"

"I'm sure it can't be so difficult."

"For you? Probably not, no."

"It's basic physics, then," Loki says, looking down at the green expanse of the table, glancing between the cue ball in his hands, which has a pleasant, smooth weight, and to the six pockets around the table. He sets the cue ball down, stroking his hand over the fabric. "What's it called?"

"Baize," Steve says. It's interesting, to see Loki: transplanted into almost any environment, he seems to be at ease, comfortable. For the barest second, Steve feels like the boy from Brooklyn he used to be, in the midst of a smokey dive bar and watching a buddy survey the pool table. "It's like, tightly-packed wool."

"I see," Loki murmurs. He leans over the table, his palm flat as it draws over the soft fabric, and Steve watches him with a sense of vague curiosity, his head tilted to the side. Looking at the triangle of set up balls, he sets down the cue ball on the mark on the table. "Show me."

Steve comes up to the table, leaning down and showing him how to hold the cue, balancing it on the backs of his forefingers and holding the thicker end of the stick toward his hip. "What purpose does the chalk serve?"

"It keeps the end of the cue rough, so that it's not too smooth. Makes sure that when you hit the cue ball, the cue doesn't just slide off." If Loki is worried about being recognized, it doesn't show – and really, no one recognizes _Steve_ , let alone Loki. Most of the footage of the Incident is grainy and hurried, and thankfully, no one had got much of a shot of Loki during it – only during the stuff in Germany had he been photographed better, and that stuff has been kinda pushed aside in the America news.

"What, you teaching your girlfriend how to play?" Steve looks at the guy: he's nearly six foot six, broad shouldered and wearing a leather jacket despite the warmth of the evening. Loki steps toward him, holding the cue in his left hand and _smiling_ as he looks into the guy's face: he has mutton chops, two chins and chapped lips, but Loki looks at him as if he's made of gold and silver.

"With the greatest of _respect_ , my good friend is a most admirable teacher," Loki murmurs, his tone taking on a sultriness that Steve hadn't really expected. "By the end of the evening, dear man, I am certain I will be as confident a player as anybody in this room."

"Is that so?" Mutton Chops asks, raising his bushy eyebrows. "What, he teaching you to hustle?"

"Indeed," Loki says. Steve puts his face in his hands, but Loki says it uncaringly, easily. "I've never played before, but it certainly doesn't look so hard. I mean, if a man such as yourself claims a competence, it's not going to be much of a sport, is it?" Steve winces as the guy grabs Loki by the front of his shirt, but Loki is unflinching. Of _course_ he is.

"Really? And what do you bet that you can _beat_ me, huh?" Loki bites his lip, his eyes softening, and he leans slightly away.

"Ah…"

"What? No cash?" Mutton Chops laughs, lowly. "What, pretty boy like you can afford a nice shirt, but nothing else?" There's a flush rising on Loki's cheeks, turning the marble skin pink, and he clenches his fists at his sides. "Well, I'm sure there's something you can offer as _collateral_." Steve takes a step forward, but Loki's hands move quickly, and he sees them move behind his back: his right hand chops against his left in a quick, sudden movement Clint's taught Steve already – _Stop_. "Hundred dollar bet, princess."

"Against what, pray?" Mutton Chops leans in, whispering something in the shell of Loki's ear, and Loki lets out a short little sound, shooting Steve a _desperate_ look, then he turns back to Mutton Chops.

"A hundred dollars?" Loki repeats.

"Uh huh."

"Alright," Loki whispers. "Alright…"

"Why don't you break, sweetheart?"

"Break?" Loki repeats, and he turns to Steve, looking askance. Mutton Chops holds his hand out for Steve's cue, and Steve hands it over, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back to watch.

"He means you go first," Steve says. "Breaking is when you send you send the cue ball into the balls or ball. Try to get them to go out as widely as possible."

"And how do we know who is playing stripes and who is playing colours?"

"Pot the easiest one you can," Steve advises. "Then stick with that colour. But _don't_ pot the 8-ball until all your other balls are gone."

"Right," Loki says, nodding to himself, and he leans over the table, setting out the cue upon his slender fingers. Mutton Chops is watching him intently, and Loki frowns as he leans over the table, running the cue through the cue ball and sending it smacking into the set: the balls break apart, bouncing off each of the walls, and Steve nods, slowly, impressed by the break, but Loki doesn't pot a single one. "Your turn, then. What _is_ your name?"

"John," Mutton Chops replies. He takes his cue, says, "Number 12, that pocket," and pots it, easily. Then, number 10 – then number 15. Steve watches, impressed, as the guy pots five balls in a row, easily, without seeming to struggle at all – Loki's break really _had_ been clean, and had set up a fair few shots.

"He's got stripes. You're spots. What did you promise him?"

"Nothing you would approve of," Loki answers, and then he bends over the table. "You know, I'm, ha, I'm something of a _stickler_ for numbers. You don't mind, do you, John?" Mutton Chops stares at him, frowning.

"Uh, no, I guess no," he says slowly, obviously not sure what the _Hell_ Loki's talking about – but then, nor does Steve.

"Good, good. We'll proceed numerically, then. Number 1, just here." And he pots it. It's a trickshot, too, bouncing between a pair of balls and the wall, and Steve feels himself grin. John stares, utterly speechless, as Loki pots all seven balls, in order, then pots the black.

It takes him all of five minutes.

"So when you said," Steve says, " _It's just physics_ , what, you were disappointed?"

"It _is_ just physics," Loki says. "Look, I have a protractor in my jacket pocket, I—"

"Why are you carrying a fucking protractor around?" Loki stares at him, indignantly.

"To measure angles," he says, as if it's obvious, and Steve shakes his head, slowly. "Now, _John_ , my new friend—"

"You're a fucking cheat," Mutton Chops says, and Loki laughs, showing all of his teeth. When he advances on the guy, there must be something in his eyes, because for a second Mutton Chops steps back and away from him, a flicker of fear showing on his face, but Loki grabs him by the shirt collar, and—

Steve isn't the only one staring as Loki pulls the wannabe biker down into a kiss, his lips smacking loudly against Mutton Chops', one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, the other settled on his hip: the guy is forced to lean down to let Loki kiss him, but he certainly doesn't shy away.

 _Well_ , Steve thinks, _At least he definitely doesn't think this is a date_.

"John," Loki murmurs, his voice sweet and soft. "Give me my one hundred dollars, and tell me where I can get a piercing."

"God, who _are_ you?" Mutton Chops says, but even as he speaks, breathing slightly heavily, he's reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Steve turns away, reaching for his beer and finishing it in one easy set of gulps.

"You should add me on Facebook," Loki says, flirtatiously, and Loki already has his phone out, typing Mutton Chops' name into his damned phone. Steve watches him, and he is aware of the admiration plain on his face, admiration at Loki's sheer confidence alone, as he slips the Franklin into his pocket, adding the guy on Facebook.

"What, pretty guy like you, no profile pic?"

"I only made it today," Loki murmurs.

"Get on the table – I'll take one for you."

 _Loki Bölson sent you a friend request,_ Tony reads at some time past two in the morning, and he taps accept, tapping on Loki's profile picture. The guy is sat cross-legged on a billiard table in some dismal little bar, grinning from ear to ear, his hair in a bun and someone else's sunglasses on his nose, with all the pool balls gathered in his lap. It's a ridiculous photo: Tony likes it, then scrolls down.

" _Making friends!"_ declares one caption, and there's a photograph of Loki with one arm strung around Steve's shoulders, and the other around some gigantic biker – tall enough that Loki has to stand on his tip toes to grab him.

" _Being judged._ _,"_ declares another, this one on a grainy video taken only about twenty minutes ago, and Tony taps it. The video is held in a slightly shaky hand, held up to show Steve, who has a slight grin on his face and is turning back to look at Loki.

 _"What, you filming me?"_ he says, and Loki's laughter sounds from behind the phone. "Put that away."

 _"Tell me what you think first,"_ Loki replies. _"You like it?"_

 _"I think it was crazy,"_ Steve says, but he doesn't seem like he disapproves all that much. _"And I don't think it should have cost you that much money."_

 _"I think it's worth it. It's charming, distinctive—"_

 _"It's a liability, and someone's going to tear the shell of your ear off."_ The camera turns around, revealing Loki's face, half-darkened with shadows as he and Steve move between street lights. He turns his head, and even with the shitty quality and the darkness, Tony can see the shine of a bar through the shell of his ear.

 _"It's hardly nice to threaten a man for getting new jewellery,"_ Loki says. " _And to think, I pierce my ear, as an homage to my forebearers and foresires, and here you are—"_

 _"I didn't say I was gonna tear your ear off, Loki, I said somebody will."_ The video stops as Loki laughs, and Tony puts aside his phone, his lips quirked into an easy smirk.

"And you said he wouldn't get into social media," Tony says to his laboratory at large. JARVIS lets out a short sound that _would_ be a huff, if he was a person.

"It seems he's having a good time, yes," JARVIS admits, slowly. "And when will you mention the press conference to him?" Tony passes his screwdriver from hand to hand, glancing sidelong at his phone.

"Tomorrow," he says. "He's still out in New York, having a good time with Steve – it's not even ten yet. Shouldn't distract him."

"And if somebody recognizes him?"

"You'll let me know, and we'll do damage control," Tony says.

"Very well, sir," JARVIS says, soupily, and Tony sighs, picking up his phone again and glancing at Loki's Facebook, just to check. His privacy settings have been stringently laid out, and from what Tony can see, he's made almost everything private, even ensuring only _he_ can send other people friend requests, and not the other way around.

Loki isn't stupid, anyway. He'll be fine. "He'll be fine," he says aloud, as if to compound it, but JARVIS says nothing at all.


	6. Brought To Justice 6

**June 13th, 2012**

Steve leans over, pouring more tea into Peggy's cup, and she gives him a very small, warm smile. It makes his heart ache to look at her, to see the wrinkles around her eyes, her mouth, her cheeks… God, the times have been _good_ to her, but it makes him ache nonetheless, to think that just a few months ago, he knew her still young, her hair dark and thick, her smile near-constant—

She's smiling still. Some things never change.

"How're you doing?"

"Oh, you know," Peggy says lowly, her voice hoarse and cracked with age. She takes up the cup with trembling hands, but she brings it slowly to her mouth, taking a slow sip and letting out a soft sigh, her eyes closing. How many times had he seen her do that, back during the war? "New medications, new nurses. The usual boring things. What about you, Steve?"

"We've got a new member on the team," Steve says, holding his mug in his lap. "He's been with us for a few months, kinda training, but we're running a press conference later today, announcing it officially." Steve looks down at the brown liquid in his cup, looking right down to the bottom, and Peggy lets out a hum of sound.

"You're worried?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "You know the Incident? Back in May?" Peggy frowns, tilting her head slightly to the side and leaning back in her seat.

"Yes, it would be _rather_ hard to forget, don't you think?"

"This guy was the ringleader," Steve says. "His name's Loki – he's Thor's brother." Peggy taps her nail against the side of the cup, a frown pulling at her lips. "It's hard to get the full story out of him, but he didn't want to do it. To invade, I mean. I don't know exactly what the deal is, but—"

"Do you trust him?" Peggy asks. Steve thinks of the magic burning between him and Loki, thinks of the fact that Loki _can't_ lie to him if Steve doesn't let him, the fact that Loki _can't_ do anything too traitorous – is that trust, really? Is it trust if you know the other guy is only doing it because he _has_ to?

"Yes," Steve says. "With my life."

"Then it'll be fine," Peggy says assuredly, cupping the tea between her wrinkled palms. She wears a white nightdress, a light yellow nightgown over the top – she's not too steady on her feet these days, now that she's into her nineties, but she still carries herself with a grace and beauty Steve just doesn't _see_ in the women around them. It's far removed, foreign, _different_.

Old.

"What makes you so sure?" Steve asks, and Peggy sighs, shaking her head from side to side.

"We've all done things we aren't proud of," she murmurs. "All hurt people we didn't want to. If you trust him, so do I. And so will everyone else." Steve sighs, leaning back in his seat.

"I don't think the world trusts me like you do." Peggy reaches forward, patting his knee. "Thanks, Peggy." Steve looks out of the window, where the sun is rising slowly and steadily. "You mind if I stay 'til twelve?"

"I never mind, Steve," Peggy murmurs. There's a melancholy in her voice, a sadness, and Steve takes her hand in his own.

Loki paces.

The Avengers are each dressing in their best, with Barton fiddling uselessly with a tie, and Romanov wearing a sleek dress as she leans over and takes hold of his tie for him. Wanda Maximoff is sitting in a red suit that cinches at the waist, her hair thick and dark and cascading over her shoulders; Stark is dressed in a suit and is on the phone, speaking rapidly to someone at the other end of the line, even as he looks at something Banner is showing him on an iPad.

Loki paces more.

His hair is up in a loose bun, a few strands of black hair hanging about the sides of his face, and the bar through his ear is obscenely visible, but he can hardly take it _out_. He wears a suit of sky blue, the shirt an icy white, and when he had tried to put on a tie, Stark had declared a relaxed look was probably best and advised against it.

Loki paces, his hands making nonsense patterns against the sides of his thighs, and his jaw is set, his teeth grinding nearly painfully together. "Stop _moving_ like that. You're making _me_ anxious."

"Am I indeed?" Loki retorts, and Stark catches him by the shoulder as he hangs up the phone, stopping him in his place.

"Look, we're just gonna put you up with Wanda, and we're gonna add the two of you to the roster together, okay? There's a chance no one is even gonna bring the Incident up."

"And how _incalculably low_ do you think those chances are?" Loki snaps. Stark's hands remain on his shoulders, and his expression remains calm. "What am I meant to _say_?"

"We'll handle the questions," Stark says, mildly, "we're just gonna say you didn't want to invade New York, that you were forced into it by means outside of your control, but you still feel _really_ bad about it, and that you want to help."

"Nobody is going to believe that," Loki says, and Stark pats his chest.

"Press conferences aren't about belief, Loki, they're about lying and seeming credible while you do it."

"Ethically—" Banner begins.

"Let's not get the guy bogged down in ethics," Stark says hurriedly, and Loki puts his hands in his pockets, doing his best not to fidget as he stands in his place, his lips pressed tightly together. His eyes are hurting. The pains in his scars come and go (undoubtedly Loki might track them to some movement of the stars if he were to pay enough attention), but usually those about his eyes remain ugly, but painless, and now there's a dull ache in them, making him blink twice as much as usual, and every now and then he will reach up to his face, rubbing his heel against them – uselessly.

It changes nothing.

"Oh, you got mail this morning, Loki!" Barton calls from across the room, pointing to the basket of letters on the kitchen counter, and Loki frowns at him. Apparently, there is some cursed, chaotic element to Barton's tie, because try as she might Romanov can't quite get it to tie in its place, and she grows more frustrated as the minutes tick by.

Loki moves toward the counter, plucking the envelope from the basket and flicking it open with a sharp cut of magic, removing the letter within and examining it.

 _Dearest Loki,_ it begins, and proceeds to tell the boring tale of Thor's current adventures. Loki sees the names of each of Thor's friends laid out on the page, as well as numerous paragraphs about his current lessons in kingship and military tactics, and Loki impatiently sets page after page of the letter aside, unable to concentrate on the normal affairs of Thor's week. He sets the letter impatiently aside, drawing his hand over his jaw and then cursing as the scars around his mouth burst with agony beneath his glamour, leaving him bent over and gasping out a sound of pain, his fingers gripping so hard at the kitchen counter that the marble cracks beneath them.

"Hey! You okay?" Banner is coming forwards, pulling Loki up to stand properly, and he is peering into Loki's face, looking for some sign of injury, but Loki only shakes his head.

"Old wounds," Loki mutters, leaning away from the other man. "It is of no consequence, Doctor Banner. The pain will leave me soon enough." Banner is so _small_. Loki is aware as he looks down at him, as Banner looks up at his face, and Banner twists his mouth slightly, giving a slow nod. "Where is Captain Rogers?" Loki is embarrassed at the hurried nerves that creep into his words, making them stiff and sharp, but no one seems surprised.

"He'll be here in like, two minutes," Stark says. "Let's just go down to the car." Loki is glad for the exercise, feeling the steps give way beneath him as he moves quickly down them toward the entrance hall of the Avengers Tower, and he steps out into the street, tapping his foot impatiently. Where is the car? Where is the _car_?

Loki can spy neither Happy Hogan nor Stark's driver, Esther, and he—

There's a crumbling sound in the distance, and Loki feels the ground shake underneath him: the very street cracks at its centre, the tarmac giving way, and Loki puts his arm out to stop the others from leaving the safety of the building, a magical field keeping the Avengers from stepping out onto the street. The ground gives way beneath Loki's feet, but he remains in place, staring down beneath his feet as if he stands upon a floor of glass. Loki hears Maximoff gasp as he throws out a web of seiðr, feeling for the changes in the city at large: the streets are each set to crack, and in the distance, he can hear the squeal and skid of car wheels as the ground gives way.

Loki stares down into the sinkhole, seeing the tarmac crumbling within: it is only twenty feet or so deep, but it's more than enough to cause damage. "We need to help," he says, turning to the others. The forcefield is permitted to bleed away, and he realises that the others are all staring at him, their mouths open, dumb. "What?"

"Ethically," Banner starts, his lips quirking into a small grin. "Tony, you gotta admit—"

"He's right," Tony says, flicking his wrist, and Loki hears the whistle of the suit as it calls to it. "Take that damned tie off and get your bow, Clint. Nat, have you—" She's already ripping her skirt so that it comes up to her mid-thigh instead of her knee, and Loki stares at the twin pistols strapped to her inner thighs. "Very Tomb Raider, I love it. Loki, scout ahead. We'll follow."

Loki is already upon the air, his suit giving way to armour of a similar colour, clinging to his body. The weight of the leather is comforting in many ways, and Loki runs upon the very sky, coming to a stop as he surveys the damage – his magic spread out beneath him in a spider's web. There are a few cars whose alarms are screaming with sound as they're pulled into some of the sink holes, and Loki descends to a Toyota that's fallen down on its side. There is a family within, and Loki touches down quickly, pulling the door clean away from the car itself.

"Here," he says, steadying the car from falling any further with a concentrated burst of magic, and the woman driving looks at him, a cut upon her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. There are three children in the car: a baby in a car seat, screaming out its little lungs, and a young man in the back who is wide-eyed as he tries to comfort the infant, but then… "It's going to be alright," Loki says, glancing to the young girl beside the mother, reaching in and beginning to unbuckle the carseat in the back. "She's just unconscious."

"How do you know!? What if she's—"

"I know," Loki says firmly. "You need to remain calm. Young man, give me your hand." Loki sets the baby's seat beside him on the firm ground, and he takes the boy's hand, pulling him with ease from within the vehicle. The boy is shaking, gasping – he can't be fourteen, even, and Loki pats his shoulder. "Take your sister and take to the pavement on the other side of the street. The streets have stabilised: you'll be fine." Loki then reaches into the car, grasping the woman by her struggling arms and drawing her from within, even as she kicks and elbows at him, but Loki focuses on pushing her aside, then leaning into the Toyota's wrecked interior.

She's only seven or eight, and her eyes are closed: her head is bloody in the midst of cracked glass spiderwebbing outward from her skull, and Loki carefully undoes her seatbelt, taking her in his arms and holding her tightly to him as he uses magic to support himself from the car. Laying her on the ground, he listens only vaguely to the mother's desperate babbling, and he lets the Toyota fall as he concentrates his magic _here_.

"What's her name?" Loki asks, drawing his magic over her face and feeling for the crack in her skull – fragments of glass ares embedded in the side of her cheek and buried in her hair, but those are minor injuries compared to the split in her skull he can feel beneath his palm.

"Pam," she says. "Oh, God, _please_ —" Loki weaves his magic into the side of the girl's jaw, following the lines of bone and setting the bone back into place, feeling for the bruising against the tender flesh of her brain. These are difficult injuries to heal on Æsir, where the brain is densely packed and heavy, but the human brain is lighter, and Loki attempts to assuage the bruising, ensuring it won't swell too much in her skull.

"Pamela," Loki murmurs softly, touching her uninjured cheek. Even as he speaks, he draws the glass away from her, the wounds healing as the glass works its way from beneath the skin, and he injures it heals up. Her heart is beating steadily, her breathing a little better, and Loki says, "Pamela… You need to wake up, girl." Her freckled nose wrinkles slightly, and when her eyes open, he sees they are a deep brown as she looks hazily between Loki and her mother, who is sobbing ever louder. "Follow my finger." Loki keeps an eye on the dilation of her eyes as she follows it, and Loki gives a short nod.

He leans back, and murmurs, "Take her to the hospital. I've done what I can for the injury, but there's a chance she'll have issues with swelling, and for the brain one needs to—" The woman's arms are tightly wrapped around him, grasping at him, and then she is helping her daughter stand, taking the girl away.

Loki watches them, discomfited by the sudden contact, and then he takes to the air.

These streets hadn't been so busy, more is their luck, but the trio of cracks have gone deep within the ground, and Loki wonders if the foundations of the nearby buildings will be affected. It isn't the emergency Loki had expected, when first he had heard the array of car alarms and crumbling concrete, and he focuses on drawing each of the cars from the ground, settling them at the edge of the street whilst leaving space for emergency vehicles to pass through.

He pulls out his phone, tapping out a quick message.

 **Loki, 12:18  
All is clear. One car had suffered a fall, but that family is alright – they're moving with haste to the hospital. It's all property damage and troubles with the roads.**

 **Loki, 12:18  
Perhaps we ought to the press conference nonetheless?**

 **Anthony Stark, 12:19  
What caused the tremor? Can you tell?**

 **Loki, 12:19  
Structural issues from May, I would assume – there's no evidence of any sort of explosive, or anyone who might have caused this. It seems to be it merely gave way. The fire department are here. What ought I say?**

 **Anthony Stark, 12:19  
Nothing, just head over to the conference building and we'll meet you there.**

Loki slides his phone into his pocket and takes to the air once again, moving with speed toward the hotel's steps. As he arrives, there are numerous press outside, gathered about a familiar, blond figure, and Loki descends toward the ground. The reporters part, snapping photographs, and Loki steps forward.

"You're late," Steven says, glancing at Loki's armour, "What happened?"

"False alarm," Loki replies. "A sinkhole has opened back near the Avengers Tower – nothing especially untoward, just structural issues. Nobody injured, fortunately."

"Who's this, Captain?" says a voice from amidst the crowd, and Steve gestures for Loki to follow him into the building, where they move into a conference room.

"Anyone hurt?" Steven asks, and Loki shakes his head.

"The streets were empty, thankfully – the fire department was on scene as I left, and I believe everyone else is en route. None of them recognized me – members of the _press corps_ , at least, one ought expect to be up on current events enough to—"

"Loki, your pictures were mostly circulated in Germany, and even those were kinda pixelated and rushed. And God, you were wearing that damned helmet anyway. Barely anyone so much as saw what your _mouth_ looked like, let alone your face. What did you expect, for people to somehow get big, high definition pictures of you and paste them up as wanted posters? They were focused on the _aliens_ , not you." Steven doesn't sound impatient, but instead amused, and Loki allows his armour to give way into the suit he had worn before, feeling the lightness of the cloth against his skin.

"I am an alien," Loki says, doing his best not to sound upset, and Steven pours a glass of water from a jug waiting on the table, pressing it into Loki's hand. He leans his head to the side, examining the bar through Loki's ear. "What?"

"It looks good," Steven says, quietly. "Suits you."

"Oh, but _Captain Rogers_ ," Loki says, unconvincingly, "How ever will I be eligible for the _army_ now?"

"You want me to make you drop and give me twenty?" Steven asks, and Loki hops over the table, sliding into the seat to the left of the centre, and Steven laughs, shaking his head as he moves to open the door. The press begin filtering in, and Loki feels their gaze on him as they each begin to take their seats. They wear badges declaring their affiliations, and Loki recognizes international reporters mingled with American reporters. The other Avengers come in, filtering into the seats on either side of Loki: Stark's suit has been set aside, but Romanov is still wearing her newly-shortened skirt, and Barton is wearing his leather jerkin with his dress trousers: the two do not well match.

"You're late, Stark!" Steven calls over the crowd.

"Sorry, Spangles, we were getting hyped for some _real_ hero work," Stark replies: the crowd chuckles and laughs, a few of them leaning back slightly in their chairs, and Loki appreciates the casual ease of the words, intended to offset any concerns amongst the press corps, and to engender affection for Rogers and Stark alike. "Okay, let's get this thing started. So, firstly, guys, I'm gonna read out a statement, and then we're gonna open to questions from the floor… You all okay, everyone's here, yeah? No one has to wait for a camera man?" There are nods and assurances he can continued from the press as Steven takes a seat in between Loki and Stark, and Stark leans into the mic to speak.

"It's been just over a month since what New Yorkers are now calling the Incident. It was a horrible thing, and we, the Avengers, were mobilized to fight it – it was meant to be a one time thing, but here we're announcing that the Avengers Initiative is now going to be setting up as one of the established hero teams on the East Coast, joining the ranks of the X-Factor, the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, and other, lesser known crisis response teams. We're each proud and excited to serve, to use our specific skillsets to aid the city of New York and others in crisis – our line-up is a little different to the trial run. So, we have Iron Man – that's me," Stark stops to wink at the audience, and there is scattered laughter, "Captain America – Steven Rogers, Black Widow – Natasha Romanov, Hawkeye – Clint Barton, The Incredible Hulk – Bruce Banner, and the Scarlet Witch – Wanda Maximoff. Finally – and I hope you'll appreciate that he hasn't got a sexy name or a pretty costume like the rest of us – we have Loki Bölson, who's joined us from the ranks of Thor, and is now living down here on Earth, with the rest of us _mere_ mortals.

The Avengers Initiative is going to be setting up in what was once Stark Tower, now rechristened Avengers Tower, and we're gonna leave the old A up there. We want to focus on the standard superhero duties of protecting and serving, and we also want to link in with other powered people. We have liaisons with the X-Men and the X-Factor, and there's gonna be a set-up of an international response system – kinda like a big group chat - so we can all mobilise faster. That's in the works at the moment, and between me and Henry McCoy over at the Xavier School, we're thinking we can get it up and running in the next year or so.

Thanks so much, everybody, for coming, and we'll be glad to take questions from the floor. Yeah, Griffin, nice to see you back in the states. What's up?" The man that stands is handsome, brown-skinned with a crop of dark hair, and he holds a notebook and a pen in his hand as he speaks.

"This is a question for, uh, for Mr Bölson – what's your background back in Asgard?"

"I lived in Asgard for many years," Loki answers, leaning in toward the microphone, finding it feels unnatural, and simply using magic to amplify his voice with magic. "I lived alongside Thor Odinson, the prince regent of Asgard, and was raised as his brother, having been taken in by Odin Allfather and his wife, Frigga. I was trained as a warrior and a tactician, but my natural talents are in the use of magic."

"And where were you during the Incident?" the young man continues, and Loki does not glance at either Rogers or Stark, instead keeping his eyes directly focused on his.

"I was amidst the fray," he answers. "I was under the control of a member of the higher order of the Chitauri, and was forced with magic to act as a sort of general, leading their invasion into Earth. I would assure the corps that I was not acting of my own volition, and am in fact—" Pain comes thick to Loki's eyes, and he gasps out a sound, turning his head away from the corps for a moment. His hand covers his eyes for a moment as they _sting_ with sudden agony, and he feels them begin to water. "I am in fact, ah, filled with deep regret at the proceedings – I've actually pledged my allegiance to the Avengers in order to, ah, repay that debt. I'm so sorry, I have to take a moment," Loki feels himself sniff, and he hurries from the room, walking out into the reception of the hotel and slipping into the bathroom. There are murmurs and speech around the room, but it is too late for Loki to linger – it feels as if his eyes are going to melt from his _skull_ , and he cannot stand the pain.

He puts his hands over the sink, letting his glamour fade away to reveal his eyes. There is scarring about his eyelashes, his brows, as is usual, but—

Loki blinks away tears, staring at his irises. Had they always been so light in colour? Oughtn't they be a darker blue? He runs a tap over his fingers, bringing the cool water to his eyes and relishing the cool. The door opens behind him, and Banner looks at him.

"I didn't mean to alarm anybody," Loki murmurs.

"It actually came across pretty well," Banner answers. He seems… Out of focus. Loki needs to concentrate and slightly squint his eyes to see Banner properly. "It just looked like you were so upset you were crying. What the Hell is _happening_ there?"

"I don't know," Loki mutters. "I've always had pain in my eyes, but never like _this_." He turns to look at his reflection in the mirror, seeing the glassy colour to his eyes, and Banner steps up beside him, squinting at them.

"Are they scars? How did you get them?"

"At the end of the universe, I will be bound in chains, and a mighty snake will drop venom into my eyes," Loki answers, staring at his own face. His eyes are rimmed with redness, tears streaking his cheeks. "My wife, Sigyn, will hold a bowl over my head, but whenever it becomes full, she will have to turn away from me to empty the bowl, and then the venom shall hit me." Banner looks between Loki's face in the mirror to Loki's face in real life, his dark brows furrowed in perplexity and thought.

"It hasn't happened yet?"

"That's… a deceptively complicated question," Loki murmurs. He brings his fingers to his temples, letting seiðr travel between them and follow the lines of his ocular nerves, feeling the curves of his corneas and the globes of his eyes in his skull. There is nothing in his eyes, and yet they _ache_. "Effectively, the achievement of godhood creates a sort of loop of one's own timeline as to its effects upon you. You are simultaneously a single, autonomous figure and the groupthink creation of your worshipers; you are simultaneously an individual experiencing time as a series of separate events, and you are also an individual within the eye of a storm, experiencing all the events of your life at once."

"But you aren't a god anymore, are you?" Banner asks, twisting his lips in discomfort as Loki lets out a sound of pain, closing his eyes tightly. "No one on Earth worships you anymore."

"A handful do – a few thousand," Loki mutters, his eyes tightly closed. "But billions worship me across the universe: I'm worshiped on 26 planets, Midgard excluded, and a handful of stations and nebulae-based societies."

"Oh, shit," Banner says. He seems surprised, but it hardly matters, not when the bulk of Loki's devotees are lightyears away. He opens his eyes, looking at them n the mirror once again, and for a second he gets a flash of future-vision, sees his eyes a uniform, creamy white, and he inhales suddenly. Destiny changes at the drop of a hat, when one is a god, but one needn't accept it all at once. "What? What?" Loki breathes very slowly, and evenly, and reaches into his pocket, dialling a number as quickly as he can.

"Loki," says the voice on the other end, calm and low, "Finally ready for our talk?"

"Professor Xavier," Loki replies, staring at his eyes, "Who would you say is the most powerful magic-user on this planet?" A beat passes between them, and Loki stares dumbly as more tears slide down his cheeks, his eyes burning. When he blinks, the world is momentarily blurry, and Loki can tell it isn't from the tears. "I may require some… Medical attention."

"Ah," Xavier says delicately. "Is it life-threatening?"

"Not exactly," Loki says. "But urgent nonetheless."

"Wait precisely where you are," Xavier says, and the line goes dead. Banner is looking at Loki, his expression a mask of anxiety, and he touches Loki's shoulder. The touch is a momentary distraction from the burning in his eyes, and Loki feels himself relax the slightest bit.

"What is it?"

"I can't fix this," Loki murmurs. "Whatever it is, I can't do anything."

"And what happens if you don't fix it?" Loki turns to look at Bruce, and he allows his eyes lose their colour entirely, showing all white. His vision is lost to him for a second, as without a pupil his eyes cannot draw in light, and within a moment his own eyes are returned to him, but he sees Banner's expression, which is solemn. "But you're— You're a shapeshifter. Can't you just, uh, rebuild your eyes?"

"For now, certainly," Loki murmurs. "But sight… Sight needs eyes. Even for a shapeshifter. I have gone without sight before, but as an object, as something seemingly inanimate. Like this… No."

"Mr Bölson, isn't it?" comes a voice from the bathroom's entrance, and Loki turns to look at him. He sees a figure clad in reds and golds, his dark hair complemented by a shock against his temples. The face won't quite come into focus for him initially, and he must blink before he sees clear, golden-brown skin, a sharp nose, deep set, brown eyes and heavy brows. Power radiates from him like sunshine, and Loki feels his own magic call to it in kind.

"Doctor Strange," he says, tasting the name on the very air, and Banner glances between them.

"You guys know each other?"

"Ancient magic knows itself," Strange says, mildly. "Even if we don't know _each other_ —"

"We still know each other," Loki finishes. Strange has magic easily at his command, coming away from him in thick, palpable waves, and Loki steps toward him, feeling his own seiðr overpowered with ease at that which Strange commands. "I want to ask your assistance."

"Mmm," Strange hums. "You can't." Loki frowns.

"What?" Strange arches his eyebrows, expectantly, and Loki realises all at once, putting his hand to his forehead. When he closes his eyes, the pain is marginally improved, and so he keeps his eyelids pressed together, feeling for his position with his seiðr alone. "My apologies: I forget myself."

"So you do," Strange agrees, and he puts out his hand for Loki to take. Loki does, and he lets Strange lead him into the hotel lobby, feeling Banner's hurried little steps to keep up with them. He can virtually _feel_ the questions waiting on Banner's lips, the desperate queries, and as Loki slides gracefully into a seat, he reaches for Banner, catching his hip to keep him still.

"A transaction must pass between us," he explains. "Doctor Strange will do as he can for my eyes, and something must be offered in return."

"So?"

"My magic is not my own: therefore, I cannot sign a magical contract."

"Oh, shit," Banner says. Loki takes hold of Banner's other hip, gently pushing him to sit down beside Loki on the plush sofa, and Banner puts his hand on Loki's shoulder. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," Loki answers. And from there, silence reigns. Loki can hear the steady beat of Banner's heart in his chest, and he is consumed, momentarily, by the thought of being _blind_. Odin lives with one eye – could Loki live with neither? "Doctor Banner," he murmurs.

"Yeah, Loki, I'm right here," Banner says earnestly, his hand gripping Loki's shoulder a little tighter.

"You've very kind," Loki says. "Why is that?" The pain is all but thrumming through Loki's head now, but he focuses on the _external_ , feeling the weighty spread of Strange's magic on the air, thick in Loki's nostrils and upon his tongue, and he listens to the beat of Banner's heart, slow, measured, calm. What meditative techniques must the man have gathered to himself, he wonders?

"Being nasty ups my heartrate," Banner replies, and Loki laughs. "Why aren't you?"

"Kind?" Loki asks. "I used to be." The doors to the press conference come open, and Loki feels gratitude burst in his chest. He opens his eyes, forcing himself not to wince at the sudden light upon his face, and he smiles politely to the members of the press that pass them by, but thankfully not a one of them attempts to come and make some conversation.

"Captain Rogers," Strange says, meeting the other man with a handshake. Rogers looks from Strange's face to his hand, but he nods his head. "My name is Doctor Strange – do you mind if I take you aside for a moment?"

"Sure," Steven says, and within a blink, Loki is reclined upon a chaise long, his head rested against a comfortable pillow. The room resembles a doctor's office, even with an optometrist's chart upon the wall, and Loki lays his hands over his belly. "Whoa, what the—"

"I need this man to examine my eyes," Loki says. "But I can't ask him to."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"Oh," Steven says. "Sorry, what's your name again?"

"Doctor Stephen Strange," Strange answers, and he is already crossing the room, sitting on the edge of Loki's chaise long and bending over him. "I have your permission to—?"

"Yeah," Steven says. If the situation bothers him, he doesn't say so, and instead walks over, putting his hands in his pockets and looking between Loki and Strange both, his expression serious. "Your scars hurting?"

"More than hurting," Loki murmurs. "It came upon me as a sudden agony, and my vision is failing me." He feels the foreign tingle of Strange's magic as it follows the lines of Loki's ocular nerves, just as his own had done some minutes before, and Strange lets out a low sound of disapproval. "You found it?"

"You have an extreme change in diet recently?" Strange asks, two of his fingers pressing against the pulse point on Loki's neck.

"I left the planet I grew up on," Loki answers, quietly. "But I've left Asgard behind me dozens of times, sometimes for nearly centuries at a time." Strange hums, thoughtful.

"What about your magic? Were you starved for a while?" Loki looks away. "I see. When your magic was taken away from you, your eyes kinda worked through their protective coating – that's the problem with future pains. Very weird time structure. I bet you woke up with pain in your eyes some nights, then there was nothing wrong?" Loki gives a small inclination of his head, and Strange hums. "Unconscious healing normally happens alongside REM sleep."

"Then I must re-train my seiðr to retain my eyes," Loki says.

"Nice play on words," Strange replies. "But, yes, effectively. I'll slow down the effects, and I can give you a balm for them, but… You're going to lose some vision for a while. You'll need glasses, or there's a spell for creating magical corrective lenses… It'll probably take at least six months to work your magic back into the habit. You know meditative exercises? Visualisation as belief, as magic?"

"I'm a divinity, Doctor Strange: I'm familiar with the concept." Strange chuckles, kindness and condescension intermingling, and Loki feels a thrill run through him. Strange could do more than let him to blindness – Strange could _end_ him, if he so chose, divinity or not. "What ought I owe you?"

"You have books," Strange says. He knows without _actually_ knowing, and Loki smiles, wanly. Of course Loki has books – he has _millions_ , as any good magician does. "I want twelve."

"The rarest I have?"

"Mmm."

"And if you already have them?"

"Oh, I'm _certain_ I don't," Strange says, his teeth showing as he smiles, and Loki nods. When they turn to Steven, the man is glancing between the two of them, owlish. "Do you agree?"

"Uh, sure," Steven says. "If he does." There's a quiet _click_ that echoes in Loki's chest, in his mind, and then Strange's magic is bursting through his skull, leaving Loki gasping and grasping for the only purchase he can reach – a handful of Strange's robes, as it turns out, but Strange doesn't seem to care. He blinks, and his vision has stabilised some, no longer flitting between _completely in-focus_ and _entirely blurry_ , but when he looks to the optometrist's chart on the wall, he sees the last few lines are quite illegible.

"Thank you," Loki murmurs, and Strange smiles at him. His gaze is full to the brim with thoughts Loki knows not, with _ideas_ Loki knows not, and Loki smiles back. "I'll have the books to you with the week, Doctor Strange. I must to my library, and it's some distance away."

"I could always go with you," Strange offers, and Loki laughs.

"Would you trust me in _your_ library, sir?"

"If you were blind," Strange replies, and he leans in a little closer, one of his hands alongside each of Loki's hips. "I've actually a blindfold _designed_ for magic-users," he murmurs, tone enticing, and Loki inhales slowly, but before he can reply, Steven clears his throat.

"Shall we?" he asks, crisply, and Loki slithers out from beneath Strange's shadow, moving to stand beside Steven. " _Thank you_ , Doctor Strange," Steven says, in a tone that includes a rather obvious – if unsaid – "fuck you", and Loki cannot help the amusement it strikes in him.

"Good evening, Doctor," Loki purrs, letting his eyes linger on the doctor's confident expression, and then he and Steven are outside the Avengers Tower. Steven loses his balance slightly, as if struck, and Loki murmurs, "It takes some getting used to. I've never been able to get the hang of it myself. Technically, one uses magic to shorten the space between two areas, and then one steps—"

Steven is already walking up the steps, away from him, and Loki chases after him, grabbing him by the shoulder, turning him around. There is a deep-set scowl on the face of Captain America, and he says, "Let me go." Loki's hands come away as if burned, but then Rogers is walking away from him again, and Loki must hurry to keep up. "Are you fucking kidding me, Loki? You start going _blind_ , as a matter of course, get some guy into help you, and now you're flirting with him! It took you half an _hour_. How the Hell do you know you can trust that guy?"

"Magic," Loki replies. "Magic calls to magic – that's why there was a contract between us. Books for healing: healing for books." Steven presses his lips together, glancing over Loki with apparent revulsion on his face, and Loki almost feels _wounded_. "What?"

The press conference had gone well. Steve had been a little _irritated_ when Loki had pretended to cry and ran the Hell out, but hey – if it worked, it worked, he thought to himself, and it was all fine, and now, here, in quick success: yeah, he's going blind, and yeah, this guy needs to heal me, and _yeah_ , now I'm going to give him the bedroom eyes and talk about his _library,_ whatever the Hell that was a metaphor for.

"Loki," Steve says, lowly, and he puts his hands on Loki's shoulders, gripping at them tightly. "You can't just— You need to be more _careful_. You can't just… First, you tried to kiss me, then you went after John Mulligan Monday night, and now _this_ guy?" Quiet understanding seems to come to Loki's face.

"I see," Loki says.

"Right," Steve says. "You've just… I'm not trying to say it's immoral to use your body, but you don't… _Have_ to, and I—"

"You're jealous," Loki says mildly, and now he is walking away from Steve, starting into the reception of Avengers Tower, and Steve, _indignant_ , follows after him. "I see, I see. The famous Captain America, noble, and patriotic! He puts his toy up upon the shelf, untouched, and gets _upset_ if other people play with it."

"You're not a toy!"

"You're damned _right_ I'm not," Loki retorts. Steve grabs at his wrist before Loki can begin to ascend the stairs, and Steve feels himself pinned up against the wall, Loki's forearm across his chest, a snarl on the other man's face. "You can pick _one_ , Steven. You can have me, or you can allow me to do as I please with _my body_."

"I don't want you," Steve growls, and Loki laughs, a high, airy sound.

"Very well. _He_ does." Steve hooks his foot under Loki's ankle, dropping him to the ground, and before Loki can scramble free, Steve sets his knee hard against his chest, pinning him against the stairs.

"Is that how you want to go through life?" Steve demands, _infuriated_ and unable to put his indignation, his anger, into words. "Jumping from bed to bed? You said to me the other night that _you don't understand_ why consent is important, so how the _fuck_ am I supposed to be okay with you throwing yourself at anyone you meet? It's _dangerous_ , Loki, and I—"

"Dangerous," Loki scoffs. "Dangerous!" He grabs for Steve's ankle and _pulls_ , setting him off balance, and then he all but sprints up the stairs, forcing Steve to chase after him. "A _healer_ fixes my ills, and you call him dangerous!"

"He is dangerous! Magic comes off him like _static_ , and you were so excited, weren't you? Drinking it in like you'd been thirsty—"

"So it's magic you have an issue with? It isn't me wanting to seduce another man, it isn't me enjoying someone's _hand_ on me, after _years_ of being alone in the dark, but oh no, if Captain Rogers says no, then of course—"

"Be quiet!" Steve snaps, and Loki is, his lips shutting closed. "Now you _listen_ to me. I'm not jealous. You could sleep with half the people in New York, Loki, and I wouldn't be jealous, because that's not what our relationship _is_. But you can't just offer to sleep with everyone you meet. Don't you value yourself more than that? Don't you _like_ yourself more than that? Are you that fucking desperate for someone to _like_ you?" Loki looks at him as if Steve has just slapped him hard across the face, his lips downturned, his eyes staring. There is a quiet, _disgusted_ rage on his face, and without saying a word, he turns on his heel, and seconds later, Steve hears the loud slam of his door.

Sighing, he drops onto one of the couches in the common room, and stays there until the other Avengers begin to filter in.

"Loki," Xavier says, quietly. He seems unsurprised to see Loki sat upon his desk, sprawled over it with his legs crossed, his palms set against the teak of the wood. Of course, Loki isn't _truly_ here – Loki is truly in his bath in Avengers Tower, stewing in cold water, and this is a mere projection. "You're here to talk?"

"Indeed," Loki says. "Thank you, for sending Doctor Strange. He and I had a most productive conversation. Tell me, Professor Xavier, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"You," Xavier answers, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. There is an amusement in the smile on his face, and he says, "You know, when you project yourself like this, it's nearly _impossible_ for a telepath to read you."

"Yes," Loki agrees. "I thought it best to remove temptation."

"Very well," Xavier murmurs, wheeling closer. "Let us begin."


	7. Brought To Justice 7

"Why Bölson?" Xavier asks. As he speaks, he pours himself a cup of tea from a standing teapot – this simple gentility looks entirely at home in Xavier's carefully-furnished office, with its dark woods, shelves of books, and even an old-fashioned globe, but Loki knows all is not as it seems. Xavier is no Luddite, and no appearances can deceive Loki into believing he lacks technology in this room entirely, even if he cannot sense for it as he ordinarily might.

"Böl means… Grief. Sorrow. Misfortune, even. Perhaps it seems self-indulgent, but grief has made more of me than the father who raised me, and the father who bore me…" Loki trails off, then gives a shrug of his shoulders. "Bölson seems accurate enough to me."

"You have children yourself?" Xavier asks the question knowingly: again, it's an answer he knows the answer to before he asks, and Loki gives a slow inclination of his head.

"Five sons, one daughter. How many have you?" No surprise shows in Xavier's face, but his gaze settles on Loki's own, and he gestures to the room about them.

"Hundreds." Loki laughs at the graceful avoidance of the question, and he steps up from the desk, moving to look to the window. In the early afternoon light, dozens of children are playing on the green, running back and forth, wrestling with one another. A handful have visible, physical mutations – one leaves flowers blooming behind her where she runs, and another has clay-red skin that shifts and remoulds itself in the light. It makes his heart ache to see so many children ( _so monstrous! So inhuman!_ ) play with such evident joy and aplomb, and he sighs.

"I don't have my children any more either," Loki says, as if in reply to the question Xavier had refused to answer, and the silence he receives is palpable. Xavier is unused, it seems, to people not avoiding the subjects he wishes for them to avoid, but Loki doesn't really care what the old man is used to. "What is it you wished to discuss, Professor Xavier?"

"Captain Rogers," Xavier replies. Loki turns to examine him, narrowing his eyes slightly and sitting back against the window ledge, his back to the window's pane. "You're bound to him, aren't you? With magic?"

"Mmm," Loki hums, nodding his head once. He sits with his hands loosely clasped upon his lap, his back straight, his lips pressed together. Is this truly what Xavier wishes? To interrogate him as to a man it is Loki's _duty_ to protect? "My father offered me a choice between execution and life imprisonment: I chose execution. My brother saw fit to argue with this, and thus, here I am."

"And you have to obey his orders?"

"Every one."

"Do you trust Captain Rogers, Loki?" Xavier asks, and Loki frowns slightly, leaning forward to examine the old man more closely. _Does_ he trust Rogers? What a question. And yet, Loki feels in the pit of his belly the _truth_ , emerging easily, reflexively – bound or not, he _does_ trust him.

"Trust is relative," he says. Xavier seems to take this as an answer, looking pensive as he brings his tea to his lips and takes a slow sip.

"We didn't know Captain America was alive. No one did," Xavier says lowly. "SHIELD's sudden revelation has not sat well with us."

"Ah," Loki murmurs, leaning forward and placing his chin upon his hands. "You wish to know if Rogers is himself – if he is under SHIELD's control? I hardly see how I might help you there, Professor Xavier. I only met him personally some weeks past."

"But you know him, intimately," Xavier murmurs. "You would know if he was going to be a threat."

"Captain America, a _threat_?" Loki chuckles, but Xavier's expression remains entirely serious, and Loki watches him for a long few moments. "I cannot be a spy for you, Professor. My magic does not allow for it."

"I don't wish you to be, Loki," Xavier says. "But if you are bound to _him_ , and not the Avengers as a whole, if he chose to take you with him, joined SHIELD in some unpleasant business…" Xavier trails off, and Loki watches him, his lips quirked up into a slow smile. It is not a threat: it is delivered too genteelly, too casually. It is merely a statement of fact, a warning for what might come. Loki's eyes give an echo of a twinge, and then he nods.

"I see," he says. "Thank you, Professor Xavier. For your courtesy."

"Always," Xavier replies. "We should do this, you know. Chat. Perhaps play chess."

"Your regular partner is avoiding you, I take it?" Loki asks, and he gestures to the corner of the room: upon a shelf, a game is in progress, the black and white sides each perfectly balanced. "It seems he's a better player than his son." For a long few moments, he and Xavier remain in their places, exchanging long looks. This is a game of chess, in its own way – Loki has no doubt Xavier would be a match for him, and yet, and _yet_ … In the back of his mind, Loki is aware of a dull knocking upon his bedroom door.

"Pietro is an intelligent young man. Old beyond his years." Loki laughs, showing his teeth.

"You _know_ , don't you? How he experiences his agonising, lonely life?" That is the truth of it, really. The _relief_ with which Maximoff spends minutes with Loki is palpable: the man lives his life at a speed incalculable by most, and he is near-frenetic with frustration at any given moment.

"He has taught here, on and off," Xavier replies, quietly. "The best mathematics professor we've ever had. Do you teach?"

"I have done," Loki answers. He says nothing more. "Good afternoon, Professor. Pray, enjoy your hours."

"And you," Xavier replies: within a moment, Loki's illusion passes away, and he is in his bath once more, his hair spread out within the water. The knocking is as yet there, nearly constant.

"Come in!" Loki calls, and he hears the bedroom door open, then close. "I am in the bath, so either open the door or speak through the—" The door bursts open, and Steven kicks the door closed behind him. He stands there, in silence, for a long few moments, staring down at Loki in his bathwater.

"You can't leave this planet unless I say so," Steven says.

"Yes," Loki agrees.

"Where's your library?"

"In a dimensional rift some billion light years from here." Steven stares down at him, his eyes narrowing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was in the _middle_ of asking you if you would accompany me to the library as you stalked so petulantly away from me. What, you thought I was explaining teleportation merely for the sake of making polite conversation?" Loki says, dryly. "I needn't actually _visit_ the library, but it will be infinitely easier to do so. Of course, I hadn't factored your abrupt detestation of me, so I will merely have to go through my catalogue and summon my books from the ether."

"I don't detest you," Steven says, sitting on the edge of Loki's bath and crossing his arms over his chest. "For Christ's _sake_ , Loki… You know I don't detest you." He reaches into the water, then hisses out a sharp sound as he touches it. The water is icy cold, and he shakes his hand off, droplets spattering the clear surface of the water, and yet Steven's gaze remains on the water, his expression faraway.

"I can warm it up, if you wanted to join me," Loki says, lowly. "I imagine the showers are as foreign to yourself as they are to me."

"We used to bathe in cold water. Steel tub in the corner of the flop, share the water to keep from wasting it. Wasn't quite _that_ cold."

"This water ought be entirely solid, by all rights," Loki admits, shrugging his shoulders. "But I've always believed in making physics my bitch." Steven's cold, serious expression cracks to pieces, and he begins to laugh, the sound nearly hysterical as he buries his face in his hands, the sound itself coming from deep within his belly.

"You pick up the language so damned quickly," he says, finally. He wipes moisture from the edges of his eyes, shaking his head, and then he looks at Loki, his expression entirely serious. He hesitates before he speaks, then says, "What's it like, on Asgard, for a guy like you?" Loki swallows, feeling the thickness in his throat.

"I…"

Steve had fallen asleep, for _fifteen minutes_ , on the couch in the communal room, and had awoken with a sudden understanding of what _exactly_ Loki had promised Strange, and it had infuriated him, set his blood hot all over again – because Loki _couldn't_ leave Earth, _couldn't_ go travel across the stars—

And then Loki had answered him, so cleanly, and Steve had felt himself deflate.

He hates the anger that bubbles inside him, hates how easily Loki pushes his buttons even as Steve keeps insisting he won't be able to, and seeing him with _Strange_ … Maybe it is different, for magic users. Maybe there really is an instinct to crawl and clamber all over one another, to lean into each other's space even though they're complete strangers, but _Wanda_ doesn't do that.

 _Then again_ , a rather snide voice says from the back of his mind, _Wanda isn't exactly normal_. He crushes that thought, nasty and unpleasant and _cruel_ as it is, and he shifts his position on the side of Loki's bath. The guy isn't ashamed of being naked, and he certainly isn't afraid to let Steve look at him – and why should he be?

He's attractive, his muscles toned, his skin pale, his body sculpted, but Steve can't be that _selfish_ , can't force the guy into some kind of relationship he wouldn't actually be able to leave, even if it's just sex. _Especially_ if it's just sex.

 _What's the difference?_ The words still echo inside Steve's head, painful, venomous, and he leans down, brushing his fingers through the water and they're as freezing cold as he should have expected. There's only a shower in his own apartment, that SHIELD had got for him back in Brooklyn, and it's weird. Strange. It still seems like such a waste of water, even though people keep telling him it's cleaner and uses less.

He doesn't know why he tells Loki. Doesn't know why he thinks so much about it, thinks of sprawling back in the tub that Bucky always complained was far too small but that fit Steve just fine, thinks of his skinny legs and his scars in the soapy water. The laughter is a great relief, amazing, the way it shoots through all the tension that had coiled up within him, and Steve feels his diaphragm _ache_ with the work of laughter. And yet despite it, Steve thinks about Bucky, his hair still wet from his bath on a freezing February morning, coming half-dressed from the apartment to punch in the teeth of the guy that'd come to accuse Steve of turning his brother onto _faggotry_.

"What's it like, on Asgard? For a guy like you?" The question is off his tongue before Steve can think about it critically, and he sees the way it hits Loki, sees the way his legs instinctively draw closed, see the way his fingers clench under the water.

"I…" Loki trails off, shaking his head, and he draws his legs up to his chest. "This is about the _promiscuity_ you perceive in me."

"It's about understanding you," Steve corrects. "You act so comfortable with men, but…" Steve thinks of seeing himself in the mirror, bruises over his eyes, splits in his lip. Thinks of the screaming matches over campfires in the army, the sudden turn of one man on another. "That's pretty recent, on Earth. And Asgard is meant to be far ahead, but—"

"Not in every way, no," Loki murmurs. "It isn't _homosexuality_ that is viewed as errant. Even Thor has taken up with male lovers, so long as they were strong, and virile. Asgard is a planet of warriors, Steven: there is an expectation of strength, of hot blood, of a willingness to fight. Pretty women who light hearths and settle things with grace are just that – pretty women. Every one of my weapons – the knife, the dagger, the poison, seiðr itself – all of these are women's weapons, Jötunn weapons, seen as sneaky and ignoble. Men are expected, above all, to be _men_. I've never been an ideal example."

"You look pretty ideal to me," Steve says. Loki stares at him, and Steve nearly winces as he realises the mixed messages he's sending. "I mean, you're tall, you've got muscle. Your bones are thick, the lines of your jaw are strong – you don't exactly look feminine."

"No beard," Loki murmurs. He reaches up, touching his face, feeling the marble beneath his fingers, and Steve watches the movement of them across his jaw and chin. "I could grow one, if I _truly_ wanted, but it wouldn't be natural. And they would have known it wasn't. It would have been yet another of Loki's deceptions. Steven…" Loki sighs, shaking his head. "My desires for men were always perceived as desires to be yet more unmanly than I already was. And thus, unacceptable."

"Misogyny and hating queers has always been pretty much wrapped up together here, too," Steve murmurs, tapping his fingers against the stone of the bath's sides. "My first time, I was still in high school. Henry Weston, a senior, took me into the bike shed and fucked between my thighs, pressed me up against the window. I was gasping all the time, terrified someone would see us… No one did. I went home feeling him on my thighs, feeling my own come rubbed into my belly. It felt filthy, disgusting, and I hated myself for wanting to go back, but _God_ , I wanted to go back." He's never told anybody that – nobody except Bucky. The hole in Steve's heart seems ever larger, much worse than the one he had before the serum, and he sighs, putting his palm over his mouth.

He half-expects Loki to share the story of his own first time, but nothing comes: Loki merely sits silent in his water, looking like a nymph in a water colour painting, his hair damp and hanging around his head, his skin inhumanly pale against the black stone of the bath's sides. "What? You don't want to share yours?"

"No," Loki murmurs. He looks slightly green around the edges, and Steve frowns.

"Is it bad?" he asks.

"Yes," Loki says. _What's the difference?_ he'd said. _What's the difference?_ "I'll tell you. If you want to know. But if I tell you, you'll come with me to my library, so that I can pick out my books for Strange."

"You don't have to barter with me," Steve says, sighing. "I'll go with you to your library, Loki. Don't… You don't have to talk about stuff it it's that horrible."

"You want to know," Loki says. "It's a human curiosity, Steven: the serum can't save you from that." Steve stares down at him, his expression frozen. Of _course_ he wants to know – of course he does, and yet… His stomach feels sick, turning inside him, flipping in its place. Loki doesn't even come across so nastily, doesn't even come across with the venomous unpleasantness Steve knows he _can_ when he's throwing the truth out just to shock you. "Shall I tell you?"

"If you want," Steve says. Loki moves to the edge of the bath, pulling himself out. Steve watches him as the moisture comes away from his skin and hair as steam, filling the air with condensation as he pulls on clothes. A _t-shirt_ , even. Loose trousers, made of some comfortable, cotton fabric. He leaves his hair loose around his shoulders, thick and dark and healthy, no longer the horrible shit he had when he first came to Earth, slick with grease.

"Come," Loki murmurs, and he reaches for Steve's hand. Steve takes it, and then reality is phasing around them. Instead of Loki's reality-bending rooms in Avengers Tower, they stand on a lacquered, wooden floor in the middle of a lofty, high-ceilinged room. The scent hits Steve all at once: old books, ancient books, and the scent of dust, and wood, and some ghost of a rose scent that clings to the lacquer of all the wood. Beneath him, there is a compass of wood tiles, pointing in different directions, and he can't understand a word of the text that decorates it, nor the words that label the shelves in every direction.

"I was on the cusp of manhood," Loki says, beginning to walk away from the central floor and to take down a corridor. Steve follows him, curiously looking about them as he passes shelf after shelf of books in unfamiliar languages. Some of them whisper as they pass, seeming to reach out to them, but Steve knows better than to reach out to touch. "The equivalent of seventeen, eighteen. I was as yet coltish, but I was very nearly grown, and I was coming into my own as the prince I wished to be. It was some months after my last name day, and there was called a Council of the Gods. Thor invited me to join him as he moved to take to the table, and I was… I was full to the brim with excitement. Never had I been permitted to attend the Council before, and it was a sign that I was truly a man, now."

Although the great bookshelves are nearly thirty feet high in places, there are neither ladders nor step stools to be seen, and Steve remembers why as he sees Loki begin to climb a ladder that isn't there, Skywalking upon the air to reach for a heavy, leather-bound book that hisses when he touches it, struggling in Loki's arms. When Loki hushes it gently, stroking its lightly-furred spine, the book begins to purr, and Loki steps back down to the ground. "A stonesmith had come to Asgard. He was a Jötunn, tall and strong as an ox, and he made an offer to the Council of the Gods. Our walls had been nearly destroyed some years before, as Asgard warred with Vanaheim, and we needed to build them anew. The Jötunn said he could do so."

"What was he called?" Steve asks.

"I don't know," Loki murmurs. "It never came up at the Council table. Funny, isn't it? A man says he can singlehandedly build the walls about your city, unprompted, and you don't even ask his name." The bitterness in Loki's voice is palpable, and the book in his arms growls softly, until Loki brushes his nose and lips against its front cover, and it relaxes once again. "He said that in just nine moons – three seasons – he could build up walls stronger and more impressive than we had ever had before. But his price was high."

When Loki hands the living book to him, Steve takes it, carefully holding it in his arms and half-expecting it to bite or scratch him somehow, but it doesn't. Its pages shift as it… What, breathes? It relaxes in Steve's arms, pressing itself against the warmth of his chest, and he can't help but let his fingers brush lightly over its furry cover. It's so _soft_. "He demanded the sun, and the moon, and the hand of the goddess Freya in marriage."

"Gee," Steve mutters. "That does seem like a lot."

"Mmm," Loki agrees, descending down a short flight of stairs. Steve watches him from the landing he stands on as Loki drags his palm down a series of locks and seals on a big, wooden chest, releasing them all: before the book within leaps into the air as soon as the chest opens, but Loki snatches it from the air with ease, and ties its wings in place with a sort of golden dental floss, hushing it quietly before putting it atop the furry book in Steve's arms. "Well, the Council of the Gods has always believed in getting something for nothing. As much as the Asgardians believe in nobility in the course of battle, away from the field they believe in trickery and deceptions. They wanted a wall, but they didn't wish to pay for it." Steven frowns.

"Why not just offer something else, then?"

"He was a Jötunn," Loki replies, archly. "Why would they give him anything?" Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. His own tongue tastes acrid. Loki leads the way through another few corridors of tall shelves, drawing out a pair of gilded books and setting them to hover above their heads as they move forward. These two don't seem to be alive. "So I suggested we shorten his time: we would agree to his steep terms if he did his work in the matter of a season alone. And he said he should do it alone, lest he try to get a whole cabal of workers upon the wall."

"And?" Loki sighs, his eyes closing momentarily, and he begins to walk upon the air again, taking a trio of books that are bound in chains from the top of a tall shelf, and he sets those to hover as well.

"He agreed, so long as he might be allowed the use of his horse, to help him carry stone. The Council was furious, and I—" Loki laughs, bitterly, darkly. "I felt sorry for him. Foolishly, I felt _pity_. Already I had suggested we bend him over backward and tie him in knots – he ought have a _chance_ , oughtn't he? So I counselled in his favour, said we could hardly deny him his horse's assistance. And the horse! That _fucking_ horse!" Loki spits out the words, his hands clenching at his sides, his head shaking, and for just a second the library flares with a sudden, dangerous heat. It passes as soon as it had come, and Loki is calm once more. "It was a stallion, and it came up to its master's chest – not large enough for him to ride himself, but taller by far than any of us, even Heimdall. The dread stallion Svaðilfari, who could run faster than any other horse, who could lift more loads upon his shoulders, who had the magic of the Allspeak in his intelligent eyes. It had light hair of the glossiest black, and a mane that came loose about his shoulders – you recall, I told you that the Jötnar do not believe in braids?" Steve nods, and he watches as Loki comes back down to the earth again, leading Steve through the labyrinthine passages of his library.

Loki begins to step upon the waters of a fountain that seems entirely normal in its place in the middle of this part of the library, and he kneels, reaching into the depths of the water to pull out a book that cries out and grumbles in his arms, even as Loki shakes it dry, moving it sternly as it struggles like a child unwilling to leave its bath. "That horse was our doom. It built as much of the wall alone as its master did, easily stacking the walls brick by brick by brick – and the Jötnar are a deeply magical people, so he weaved protective spells into the wall as he built it. Better than the wall before? It was _incomparable_. The close of the season was soon approaching, and so too was the completion of the wall – he had only the gatehouse to build."

Setting the amphibious book to hover with the other five in the air, he dries off his hands, taking two more books from the shelves and holding them against his hip. Steve can already guess where this story is going, thinking of the nameless Jötunn – thirty feet tall? _Jesus_. And Loki… He's not small, but he's small _enough_. "Another Council was called, and Freya wrapped her hands around my neck, pinned me to the wall as I gasped and choked. I turned my flesh as hot as molten iron, and she was forced away with burns upon her hands – burns I refused to heal. It was hardly _my_ fault, I insisted, desperately. The Council had debated our options, and agreed upon them together. And Odin said that if I did not fix this, he would make of my head a wedding present for Freya and her Jötunn spouse." Steve swallows, and a part of him wishes he could just get Loki to _stop_ , wishes he could take back his want to heat Loki walk about this, and yet…

He talks about this as if it's something he's never spoken about before. Talks as if it's the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and he's desperate to get it off his chest. "What did you do?" Steve asks. Loki plucks a giant book from the shelf, tapping its spine: unlike the others, which levitate with magic moving them, it flaps its massive covers like two great wings, following Steve and Loki as they make their way back toward the atrium. Here, Loki drops to his knees, gesturing vaguely for the books on the air to lower themselves to the ground as he unlocks the centre of the compass point, drawing out a tiny little book barely the side of his fingernail. "That's twelve," Steve murmurs.

Loki sets each of the ten books in a stack, the tiniest one on the top, and then he takes the two living books from Steve's arms, holding them in his arms. They nuzzle against his chest, the furry one purring quietly, and the winged one whines softly until he permits it underneath his arm, where it can nestle in his armpit.

"I did what I had to do. I went out to the foundations of the gatehouse, having made myself invisible. Winter was coming swiftly to an end: I could feel it on the very air, and there were the Jötunn and his stallion, working, working. The Jötunn spoke as he worked, and with everything he said, it was plain the stallion understood him. He complained of how warm the Asgardian winters were compared to those back home – the stallion whinnied its agreement. The Jötunn said that although the work was hard, he enjoyed its quiet rhythms: the stallion agreed. And the Jötunn said he was so _excited_ to show the goddess Freya, who he had always loved from afar, what pleasure he might offer her – he was excited to give her the sun and the moon, which he had bartered for as his dowry to her, and he was desperate for her to touch him. He had not known the touch of a woman in years, and he ached for it – the stallion agreed with that too."

Steve sinks slowly to the ground beside Loki, watching him as he clutches the two books in his arms, feeling their respective – well, not _heartbeats_ , but, uh, energies, Steve guesses, against his chest. He looks dejected, and regretful, and _wretched_.

"I was not skilled with illusions in those days. I was as yet a youth in the study of magic, and primarily excelled in that which came naturally to me – shapeshifting, and Skywalking, and conjuring. Illusions were something I was still learning to work with subtly, and certainly, I could not create anything that seemed realistic. So I… I transformed myself into a mare. I became a palomino, dappled with white spots, with braids in my mane—" Steve frowns, tilting his head in confusion.

"This— This still the story of your first time?"

"Yes," Loki says, grimly. "And I whinnied, softly. Svaðilfari's head whipped toward mine, and although his master cried out for his stallion to stop, begging, entreating Svaðilfari to stay, he would not. And I ran from him, although he was the fastest stallion to ever live, with magic beneath my hooves. I ran, and I ran, and I ran, until winter's snow turned to the push of spring flowers from the grasp – until I knew the terms of the Jötunn's contract had expired. I was exhausted. Never had I expended so much seiðr, nor run so fast in so foreign a form, and I…" Loki's eyes water, momentarily, and he reaches up, wiping them with the backs of his hands. "I ran into what I believed was a road, but I was dizzy with fatigue, and confused. It was the entrance to a quarry, long-since abandoned, and I could not escape. So… Svaðilfari, the stallion, it— He—"

There is bile in Steve's throat, and he feels himself hold back the urge to gag. Loki takes in a gasp of air, as if for some minutes he has forgotten to breathe, and then he bows his head, putting his head in his hands. There, his hair loose, his eyes red-rimmed, wearing just a loose t-shirt and trousers that seem too big on him, and in the middle of this gigantic library, he looks small, and pathetic. Steve stares at him, feeling his own mouth dry.

"Your first son…"

"By Svaðilfari, yes. I was weak, and exhausted. It took several…" Steve hears Loki gag, then swallow hard, before he continues, "Several, ah, _sessions_ , before I had enough magic to do something. And it burned me to do so, burned me terrible – seiðr came off me with the force of a bomb, and I flattened hundreds of trees in the vicinity, as well as turning the stallion itself to dust and ashes. My magical capabilities had been tested and heavily overcome, and I was tender outside as well as within. After a few days, Heimdall managed to find me, and he carried me back to Asgard. His boots crunched on fragments of the Jötunn's skull outside of the gatehouse. He had insisted he had been tricked, that his horse had been drawn away, that that wasn't the terms of their agreement… And he was a monster, wasn't he? Thor dashed his skull with the power of Mjölnir, and burst it like a melon. I refused to be seen by anybody except Heimdall, even Mother, until Odin burst into my quarters as I was bathing."

"He wasn't angry at _you_?" Steve asks, feeling fury flare inside him, but Loki looks tired as he shakes his head.

"Angry at me? No," Loki mutters, shaking his head. "No, he was… He was angry, and distraught, that I had been violated in such a way. He isn't…" Loki stops, biting his lip, then says, "He isn't a monster, Steven. He is foolish, and hard-hearted, and old, but he isn't _evil_. He isn't _cruel_. He would have killed Svaðilfari himself, if he could have. He knew that I, ever the ergi boy beside his brother, ever the unmanly… He knew I could never stand the shame. At having let myself be raped by a horse, at having borne its _young_ , all because of a stupid plan I engendered in the first place. He was angry at himself for having forced me into such a corner. He didn't realize how desperate I was, assured me he never would have killed me, not for something the Council had agreed to. He told the others that I had conjured a mare, and that the _mare_ had borne Svaðilfari's colt, and that the mare had died in the process. But it was me. Of course, I could never be _mother_ to Sleipnir, even… Even had everyone known. He was just another monster, albeit a useful one. He is his grandfather's mighty steed, even now."

Loki exhales, softly. He looks entirely alone, even clutching living books to himself. What kind of man builds a library like this, all on his own? What kind of person never _shares_ something like this with anybody, just, what? Sits here all alone?

"Please," Loki murmurs, softly, "Do not imply to me that I do not know what I am doing when I use sex to manipulate others. Even if you _cannot_ tell the difference between my genuine desires and those that I use to weight a situation in my favour, I can. I have walked from here to the end of the universe, and back, and now I cannot walk freely. I have fought on distant planets, engendered the greatest schemes, and now I cannot lie, nor deceive, nor even _manipulate_. There is so little left to me, Captain. That you would deny me even the use of my own _body_ , what scant pleasure I might reach for…"

"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs. He lunges, then, and he feels Loki flinch, but already Steve's hands are tightly wrapped around his body, gripping him as tightly as he can although the books squeal their irritation between them, and Steve cups the back of Loki's hair, feeling Loki relax minimally in his arms. "I'm sorry, Loki, I'm sorry."

Loki says nothing, but then, Steve didn't expect him to. They stay like that, arms wrapped around each other, cold skin against warm skin, for the longest time.


	8. Brought To Justice 8

Steven's grip is tight around Loki's body, and Loki remains still. Like this, he can feel every part of Steven's body, right up close to his: he can feel the steady beat of Steven's heart, so much faster than Loki's own, can feel the rise and fall of his chest as Steven breathes in, and out, and when the exhales come from Steven's mouth, Loki feels them hot against his cool, cool skin, settling on the back of his neck.

Steven Rogers has his hands buried in the loose strands of Loki's hair, his fingers pressed against Loki's scalp, so _warm_ , and Loki feels himself swallow, his shaking hands loosely pressed between he and the captain's chest, with his books purring softly now that they have relaxed in the position.

"You needn't—" Loki begins, but it cuts so dreadfully through the heavy silence that he immediately feels a twinge of guilt, and he sets his mouth shut again, resting his chin in the crook between Steven's neck and his shoulder, feeling the pump of blood beneath his skin. "You needn't pity me."

"Why don't you let me worry about what I need to do?" Rogers replies lowly, his tone almost gruff, and Loki puts his lower lip beneath his teeth, worrying lightly at the thin skin and feeling the ghost of old pains. "That's not the worst thing that's ever happened to you, is it?" Loki is silent, for a long second.

"Not in my opinion," he murmurs. Steven leans back, remaining on his knees, and he lets his hand settle on the graceful column of Loki's neck, his palm gloriously hot, his thumb touching the hard line of Loki's jaw. There is a part of Loki, a _pathetic_ part, that wishes to coil up in this man's lap for the next eon, feel nothing but Steven's hot flesh against his own, feel his _gentleness_ , lap it up like a kitten with milk. He feels the shame rise in his cheeks, and he turns his head slightly away, but not enough to draw his neck away from Steven's hand.

 _I don't want you_ , he had said. Very well.

"We should to the Tower. I will bring these books to Greenwich."

"You don't need me to come with you?" Steven presses, his blue eyes alight with focus, and Loki shakes his head.

"The magic… _Understands_ the situation. If Strange and I were to enter another agreement, of course I would need you as a signatory, but for less regimented matters, personal ones… This isn't a true slavery spell. If it were, why, I'd never be able to leave your side or move about so independently, but as it stands…" Steven Rogers has an expression of distaste on his expression, and Loki allows himself to go quiet. It feels uncomfortable, to have spoken for so long, as such length, without Rogers interrupting him, without _mocking_ him. Loki feels wrought out, and oversensitive. He stands, forcing Steven's hand to come away from his neck, and he begins to pile the books in his arms. "I'll send you back, and see you tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Rogers repeats, his brow furrowing as he stands. "Where are you—" He stops, his jaw setting. His understanding is cold, and abrupt, and Loki wonders if the man is going to snap at him as he has before, if he is going to cut Loki to the bone once again. "You're so sure you're going to stay the night there?" Why should it upset him so? If he doesn't _want_ Loki, then why can he not do as he pleases?

"I am unused to my every action being analysed," Loki says quietly. "Must you scrutinize me so? What next, Steven? Will you flay the very flesh from me, to be certain my bones are where I say they are? Don't I tell you things when you ask me? Don't I tell you secrets enough?" He looks and _feels_ pathetic, vulnerable in the most humiliating of ways, and Steven's hard eyes soften, just the slightest bit. " _Please_ ," Loki repeats, softly.

"Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, fine. But be… Safe. Remember what I said before? Don't hurt yourself? Don't let him hurt you." Loki feels his mouth twist, and he clutches the books a little tighter in his arms.

"Within… Reason, though," he says, immediately taken aback by that _particular_ order. Rogers stares at him, evidently ill-conceiving what Loki means, precisely, and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, doing his best to keep his tone diplomatic. "There'd hardly be a _point_ in pursuing Strange if he, ah, _couldn't_ hurt me."

"We're going home," Rogers says immediately. All of his relaxation has faded immediately, his shoulders stiff, his neck straight. "Now."

"But I—"

" _Now_ ," Rogers says again, and Loki considers the dimensional rift, setting the floor to shift beneath them. It leaves him slightly dizzy for a moment, to perform the spell so quickly, but only practice will improve it, and he stands in place in the communal area of Avengers Tower, one of his hands seeking out the back of the sofa to lean upon.

"Oh, you guys are back," Stark says, "We—"

"Come with me and Loki," Steve orders, crisply, and Loki bows his head slightly, focusing on the floor instead of at the other Avengers, most of whom had been gathered around a table in easy, casual conversation. All of them are _staring_ at him, and Loki feels shame and disgust bubble within him, feels himself _wishing_ he could simply crumble into the ground beneath. Stark blinks, obviously surprised, and Loki leans away when Stark reaches to touch his shoulder, instead falling into rapid step behind the captain.

"Sorry, guys, give us a sec," he hears Stark say, and when they enter Steven's office, Loki banishes the books, visualising them appearing in the Greenwich office where Strange has obviously made his home, tied up with a ribbon and a _pleasant_ note. His hands now free, Loki begins to hold his right hand within his left, rubbing the palm with his thumb and tracing over each of his knuckles. Stark closes the door behind them, and he gives Steven a hard look. "Okay, what the Hell is _this_ about?"

"You don't have to tell him what you told me," Rogers says, and Loki feels temper rile within him.

"Good: I have no intention of doing so."

" _But_ ," Rogers continues, his tone commanding, and Loki feels himself lean back, "I want to talk about the Strange thing."

"Oh, excellent!" Loki says, harshly. "Why just Stark, then? Pray, let us bring in all the Avengers – or better, let me take out an advertisement in the _Times_ , declaring that I, a young man in his prime, wishes for _sex_ , with a—"

"Sit down, and shut up," Steven says resolutely, and Loki is forced to obey, sitting upon the very air and closing his mouth. Stark's expression is disbelieving as he looks between Loki and Rogers alike, and his disbelief soon moulds into pure anger.

"Are you fucking serious? You just dragged me in here 'cause you don't want him to go _have sex_? What the fuck is wrong with you? This isn't the 40s, Steve, you can't just—"

"That's not it," Steven says. "That's not it. I _know_ it's not the 40s. That is precisely why I am about to leave the room, and leave you guys to talk a second. Loki, every order I just gave you about Strange, it's off the table. But I want you to—" He trails off. There is redness high in his cheeks, and his pink lips are pressed so tightly together they are becoming engorged with blood. Rogers comes toward him, leans in, and murmurs in his ear, "Look. I'm not… Hugely experienced. I just want you to give him an idea of what's up, okay? I just… I need to know you're safe, and I _know_ we don't see eye to eye on this one, and this must be horrible, and humiliating, but I need you to be _safe_. Okay?" Steven's hands are on Loki's cheeks, and Loki feels a part of himself _crumble_ at the look in his eyes.

"Very well," Loki says in the tiniest of voices. And then Rogers is gone, the door closing behind him, and Loki is left alone in uncomfortable silence, with Stark staring down at him.

"So," Tony says, to break the silence, "Either you two are having sex, or Steve's just gotten all paternalistic on you."

"Paternalistic is about the long and short of it," Loki confirms. He doesn't make eye contact with Tony, instead keeping his gaze on the carpet of Steve's bare, undecorated office, and Tony takes in Loki's clothes. They look _comfy_ , but they don't look very Loki – Tony doesn't think he's ever seen him in a shirt without a stiff collar, even in his pyjamas, and the pants look so _soft_.

"You wanna tell me why you're dressed for the dog track?"

"Raising dogs is stupid," Loki mutters. "They don't even have any riders."

"What would the riders be?" Tony asks. "Cats?" Loki shrugs his shoulders. He's moving his hands against each other like they're about to fall apart at any second, and Tony sighs, sitting back against the desk. It's one thing to agree to take the weight off Cap's shoulders if something gets too heavy, but _this_? Whatever this is… "So, you wanna tell me why he's so upset?"

Loki is silent for a long time, but Tony doesn't interrupt the quiet: he can see in the shift of Loki's eyes that the guy is just trying to formulate some kind of response that makes sense and doesn't tell Tony stuff he doesn't want Tony to know – and frankly, whatever it is, if it has _Steve_ this frazzled, it's probably for the best Tony doesn't know.

"Doctor Banner told you of the healer," Loki says. "Strange."

"Uh huh," Tony says, nodding his head slowly. They'd been talking about Strange as they'd come into the Tower, and had gone on to talking about the press conference itself, which went _super_ well, despite Loki walking out, seemingly in tears. He assumes that whatever the trouble had been with his eyes, that they're gonna be fine, but there's something else, _now_.

"Strange and I are… _Interested_ , in one another. Steven believes that Strange is dangerous – without merit, I would say." Tony holds his tongue for a long few moments, and then Loki says, "Captain Rogers seems to be under the impression that my interest in sex is motivated purely by my ailing self-esteem, and he seems discomfited with the thought of my engaging in such an action with anybody."

"That's a lot to unpack," Tony says. Jesus Christ. What the Hell _is_ he? Some kind of marriage counsellor between Steve and Loki? And yet, and _yet_ … Loki looks so damn upset, with his limp hair and casual clothes, his lower lip visibly bitten red. "And I assume that isn't what made him snap?"

"He said…" Loki hesitates, visibly uncomfortable, but then a sort of calm spreads over his face, and he says, "He said not to let Strange hurt me. And I said, well, you know. Of course he's going to hurt me a _little_ bit. And I don't know what, precisely, Captain Rogers assumed I was going to be opting into, but I— I hardly planned to go and _make love_ with this man." Relief hits Tony like a train, and he sighs, putting his head in his hands.

"Yeah, that's completely normal, Loki," he says, firmly. He even laughs slightly with relief, shaking his head, and he adds, "Guy just jumped to the worst conclusion, I think. Okay, don't let Strange like, permanently maim you, okay? Go out and enjoy yourself."

"You are serious?" Loki asks, leaning forward slightly, and Tony nods his head.

"Yeah, lemme talk to Cap. Christ, I was worried you were gonna come out with something _awful_ – Loki, everyone likes it a little rough sometimes. Even Cap, I bet. Have fun, use protection, all that jazz…" When he looks behind him, Loki has already disappeared, and Tony frowns.

Stepping out of Cap's office, he puts his hands in his pockets, surveying the other Avengers as they sit around the long table. "Is he just gonna be doing that teleport thing now? Has he always been able to do that?"

"He just started doing it today," Steve says, his lips pressed together, his expression concerned. "He went?"

"Uh huh," Tony agrees. "Glad to see I'm the _cool_ dad here."

"Please don't call him our child," Steve says, looking positively nauseated, and Tony laughs. Settling down beside Wanda, Steve on his other side, Tony taps his fingers upon the table, and looks to Clint.

"What, we playing, or not?"

"Oh," Clint says, and he scrambles for cards out of his ridiculous cargo pants pockets. As he begins to shuffle the cards, Tony leans back toward Steve.

"I over-reacted?" Steve asks.

"Oh, hugely," Tony confirms.

"He okay?"

"He's gonna be." Steve nods his head, and for the first time, Tony looks at him, and sees how _old_ he is. It isn't just the seventy years in the ice – it's something more than that, in the way his eyes are deep and dark and thoughtful, in the way he presses his lips together like he's done it a billion times, and then a billion more. For the barest second, there is something _ancient_ about him. "Deal us in, Clint," Tony says, and Steve catches the card as it's slid across the table to him.

"What's the game?" he asks.

"Chase the Ace," Nat says, and Tony nods his head. After a short pause of Cap, Bruce and Wanda each looking bewildered, Nat and Clint begin to explain.

At around five o'clock, they order take-out. At around six, they order in drinks. And by about ten, every single one of the Avengers is tipsy at _the least_ , and Steve stands amidst it all at three in the morning, his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face. Nat is sprawled back in Wanda's arms, talking the most Steve's ever seen her talk as Wanda holds her around the waist; Tony and Clint are clumsily dismantling the blender, laughing as they make minor adjustments to it, and Bruce…

Steve reaches out, brushing some of Bruce's hair out of his eyes, but Bruce doesn't even stir, his neck crooked at a bizarre, ugly angle, his jaw slack, his eyes tightly closed. Now and then, he'll release an exceedingly quiet snore, and Steve can't help but chuckle a little at it.

"JARVIS," he says. "Keep an eye on Tony and Clint, yeah? Just drop me an alarm if they get too dangerous with that blender."

"Of course, Captain," JARVIS replies, some amusement creeping into his artificially intelligent voice, and Steve grins to himself, making his way out of the communal room and taking up the stairs toward his own bedroom.

Steve likes it here. It's a big suite, with wide windows – _real_ windows – and a big hotel-style bed, a chair, a table. SHIELD is paying for a little apartment for him out in Brooklyn, and sure, it makes Steve feel at home, but it's also nice sometimes to sleep right here in Avengers Tower, his bed up to the window so he can watch the city at work as he drifts off to sleep.

He strips off his shirt, kicking off his shoes as he does so, and he drops onto the feather-light mattress, staring up at the ceiling for a few long moments. He thinks of Loki… No. Best not to do that. Loki, in the middle of his library, kneeling on the wooden floor, his hair loose, the t-shirt tight against his chest…

 _Jesus_ , man. He was telling you about the time he got _raped_.

Steve begins to wriggle out of his pants, kicking them onto the ground and not taking the time to fold them and set them aside as he ordinarily would, instead moving to crawl up onto his mattress, dropping heavily onto the cushion. There are no cameras or the like in any of the rooms here in Avengers Tower, Tony had assured Steve – JARVIS monitors life signs, and someone could talk _to_ JARVIS, but there's no way to listen or watch what's going on in people's private spaces.

The door is locked. Steve is alone. He stares at the smooth, white expanse of the ceiling.

Steve thinks of Loki in the bath, his legs spread, submerged up to his neck with only his damp hair's tips in the water. Why does he bathe like that? Why does he spend so much time in the damned bath in the _first_ place? And what had Steve really expected, when he'd asked Loki what his first time had been like? That Loki would have something like _Steve_ did, that he'd have some messy fuck in an outbuilding?

Raped. By a _horse_. " _I was the equivalent of seventeen, eighteen_ ," he'd said, and Steve feels his belly turn, turning and pressing his face hard into the pillow. It was one thing for the others – they _could_ get drunk. But Steve? Ha. He misses it. Christ, he misses it. He'd used to get drunk off the _smell_ of a beer, his liver was so damned shot, and now…

Loki on his back in Strange's office, his lips parted, his eyes _hungry_. Loki with Strange's hands either side of his hips, his thighs slightly spread apart. _I don't want you_ , Steve had snapped, but God, it's hard not to. It's hard not to want him, when Loki makes it clear every time that he's trying to understand, when he's all broad shoulders and narrow hips, grace and rage tied up in green ribbons.

But he _can't_ want him. Can't _have_ him. Just fucking imagine it, imagine getting into _bed_ with him and realising he doesn't want it, realising he won't say _no_ …

Steve sighs, and wishes for the umpteenth time that he was _drunk_.

 **June 14th, 2012**

Tony groans, his eyes as tightly closed as he can get them. There is awful light in the room, sunlight, streaming in like he's living on a fucking light bulb, and he groans, "JARVIS, down blinds." His head is _aching_ , but—

"Belay that order," says a crisp, English accent, and Tony opens one eye, immediately wincing at the brightness stinging his dry eyes, and he coughs. His mouth is dry as fuck too, like he's been gargling sand and glass all night, and he feels Loki come closer to him, his fingers touching the side of Tony's cheek, exceedingly gentle, but _Jeeze_ , he's got fingers like ice. "Drink this."

The glass is pressed against Tony's lips, and he isn't really in a position to argue, so he opens his mouth as Loki tips the glass back, feeling it strike onto his tongue. It's sweet, sweet and kinda soapy, and Tony swallows, then coughs slightly, but—

He opens his eyes, staring at Loki. The light sensitivity? Gone. The inescapable ache in his head? Gone. The dry mouth, the throat pain, the vague nausea and dizziness of a hangover? All gone!

"Will you marry me?" Tony says.

Loki seems to give it a moment's thought before saying, "No."

"Probably for the best," Tony admits, and Loki takes his hangover cure, which is in a fucking _Erlenmeyer_ flask, onto Clint, very gently patting his cheek until he comes awake. Loki signs something Tony can't quite parse, and Clint looks wary for a second before he nods, sipping at the bottle. "Is that a potion? You brewed a potion for us?" He sniffs, and then he turns: the kitchen table has been laid with a full cooked breakfast – eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, even fresh squeezed orange juice.

"It's a hangover cure," Loki replies, passing Clint his hearing aids from the coffee table, and he hands the bottle to Nat, who is already reaching for it with grasping hands. "It isn't a _potion_. You oughtn't make it sound so mystical. Here, Doctor Banner." Bruce sniffs the neck of the flask before taking a sip, visibly tasting it on his tongue.

"What's in this?" he asks, and Loki chuckles, gesturing for he, Nat and Clint to make their way toward the breakfast table.

"Alright, fine, it's a _potion_ ," he says, and finally, he leans over Wanda, drawing her hair back from her face and speaking to her softly in a language Tony doesn't know. Wanda groans, rubbing her eyes with her palm, and Loki continues to murmur to her, before bringing the bottle to her lips and letting her take a small swallow. She remains a little tired and grumpy, but she sits up, patting Loki's arm.

"Will you tell _me_ what's in it?" she asks, and Loki smiles, cupping her cheek. It's a weirdly intimate gesture, but Wanda doesn't shy away from it, keeping her gaze on Loki's own.

"Of course, my dear," Loki murmurs. "Come to me later this afternoon, and I shall teach it to you." Tony settles down at the table, with Clint beside him, and he frowns at Loki as Wanda slowly moves to stand, coming to join them.

"Later? Why, what're you doing now? You're not joining us for breakfast?" Tony asks, and Loki vanishes the flask, his hands in his pockets, his lips quirked into a small smile. He's positively _glowing_ , and Tony has to wonder how fucking good that Strange guy had to be, to get Loki looking like _this_.

"I'm going for a run, and then I have an audience with his highness, the Prince Namor. Would you like to join me, Wanda?"

"Yes," Wanda says, seeming surprised as he takes a napkin and settles it in her lap. "I would love to."

"Very well," Loki murmurs, and he gives her a _beaming_ smile before walking out of the room, with everything but a _skip_ in his step. Amused and unable to hide it, Tony turns to the rest of the room, his hands spread out in front of him.

"Mr Grinch has grown a bigger _heart_ ," he says, delighted, and Bruce shakes his head, slowly.

"What's got him in such a good mood?"

"He went out and got some, huh?" Clint asks, and Tony shoots a finger gun in his direction, making Clint nod his head, slowly. "Bet she was hot." Clint is reaching for crispy bacon, and Tony puts out his plate for some.

"Yeah," Nat says, unconvinced. " _She_."

Steve wakes up in his bed to the sound of a crisp, loud knock against the door, and he sits up, glancing at the clock. _Seven_? Jeeze. "Yeah, come in," he calls, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes, and Loki steps into the room, a tray balanced against his hip, and Steve stares at it, his eyes wide.

Loki wears a sleek, green running suit, his hair tied in a bun above his head, and he comes right up to the raised platform Steve's bed rests on, settling himself down on the edge of the bed as Steve pushes himself up into a sitting position. The tray is _alight_ with wonderful smells, and Steve inhales, filling his nostrils with them as he takes the tray into his lap. Toast and butter, bacon, eggs, sausages, roast peppers, even black pudding, even _beans_ …

Loki is looking at him, expectantly.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs. "You didn't have to do this."

"I cooked for everybody," Loki murmurs. His pale skin is positively _shining_ in the morning light, and his blue eyes are bright with energy, a smile pulling at his lips. He looks absolutely beautiful, and Steve doesn't let himself think about what he looks like any more, instead looking down at his plate and beginning to eat. "I wasn't sure if you preferred orange juice or hot coffee, so I—"

"Gave me both," Steve murmurs. "I feel very spoiled."

"I've already received a marriage proposal from Mr Stark this morning based upon my patented hangover potion alone, so…" Steve chuckles, taking up the glass of orange juice and taking a sip: Loki watches the movement intently, as if filing it away – and Steve _constantly_ sees him writing in one of those diaries of his during his down-time, so maybe he _is_ gonna file it away.

"I over-reacted last night, huh?"

"You humiliated me, publicly, then had me abruptly reveal a personal matter to a third party, despite my protests." He says the words frankly, and quietly, and Steve looks at the breakfast Loki has made for him, guilt churning in his stomach. Loki doesn't seem angry, or even disappointed: he merely speaks with a calm and easy tact.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, genuinely. "I shouldn't have freaked out. I don't mean to be so… Controlling."

"You're used to giving orders," Loki says, diplomatically. He reaches over, picking a slice of green pepper from Steve's plate and placing it into his mouth, chewing on it leisurely before he says, "Of course, those who take them are not ordinarily bound by them. My magic doesn't allow for extenuating circumstances, for the most part."

"No," Steve agrees. "I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology," Loki murmurs, his tone gracious as a matter-of-fact, and then he smiles.

"What?"

"Just—" Loki trails off, looking out of the window. The smile remains on his lips, drawing a curve through them, and he says, "I am not accustomed to speaking of that which bothers me. That which has happened to me, that which I _expect_ to happen to me. Asgard… We don't have psychology, or therapy, or _mindfulness_ , or openness. We put our feelings into songs, and poems, or battle, and speak not of them except with our spouses. I lacked even a conception of mental health before I came here once again in May, holding merely an assurance that I was quite mad."

 _Quite mad_ … God. What a horrible thing for someone to tell you. But Loki doesn't seem to be upset by it: on the contrary, he turns and gives Steve a look that _shines_ with contentment and satisfaction, and he says, "Don't you feel it too? The difference?"

"I do, I guess," Steve admits. He takes a bite of toast, chewing on it slowly, then asks, "You have a good time last night?" Loki glances to look at him, as if checking to ensure that Steve's face isn't full of hidden hatred. He seems to decide the coast is clear.

"Yes," he says. "Incredibly good, actually."

"Did you—" Steve trails off. "Did you, uh…?"

"Did we copulate? Have sex? Have _coitus_? Did Strange and I _fuck_?" It shouldn't surprise him, the way the "f" sound comes off Loki's sound, the way the "k" is sounded harshly. He's heard Loki use the word "fuck" before, hasn't he?

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking."

"No," Loki says primly. Steve stares at him, his lips parted.

"What?"

"No," Loki repeats, leaning back upon his heels. "Doctor Strange was actually on his way out as I arrived, to a party, and he invited me as his plus one. I met a great deal of other magic users, and later today I'm having lunch with his highness, Prince Namor. You're acquainted, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I know Namor," Steve mutters, shaking his head. He can't quite help the grin that comes to his face, dragging his lips up and into a smile. "The guy's a headcase. You know that, right?"

"Well, he speaks very highly of _you_ ," Loki says, chidingly.

"The guy never wears a shirt."

"Why should he? _You_ aren't wearing a shirt."

"I'm in bed!"

"So you are." Steve's grin remains plastered on his face, and he says, "So I overreacted over nothing at all."

"Yes," Loki agrees, nodding his head slowly, and Steve watches him for a long few moments, taking in the healthy glow in his cheeks, the apparent good mood still radiating off him.

"So, if you didn't have sex, what's put you in such a good mood?" Loki sighs, putting his chin upon his hand, and he grins, yet further. It's amazing, what a difference a _genuine_ smile makes to Loki's harsh features, and Steve leans in, rapt as to what he's going to say next.

"You have no idea what it's like, to be a prince and know you will never attain the throne. There is a huge amount of pressure upon your shoudlers, to be a tactician, a warrior, a pater, a teacher, a strategist, a city planner… I loved my lessons, as a child. I didn't realise until I was around the equivalent of thirteen or fourteen that my father had never intended for me to reach the throne of Asgard – up 'til then, I had believed Thor and I were equally held in his regard as candidates. And once I realised, of course, I tried all the harder – with great futility and desperation, I attempted to gain my father's favour, knowing that I was more than just the second favourite, but the one viewed as… _Illegitimate_. Every public event, every gala, every feast, was a time of great stress for me." Loki's expression is pensive, and thoughtful, but he doesn't seem unhappy.

"I would be juggling the natural duties of a prince regent to be – charming guests, engaging in polite debate, telling stories, playing songs or performing feats of magic, that people would consider me genteel, respectable, well-trained… I also had to work upon my own natural talents. Always, at such an event, I would be to gather what intelligence I might feed back to my father, what we would increase our stronghold upon the intricacies of the politics of the Nine Realms…" He sighs, softly, and then says, "Last night, there was none of that. I introduced myself as an Avenger, and people called me "your highness" anyway. I told fewer stories than I heard, sang songs as part of the wider group… I was not unremarkable, of course, but I was seen to be upon even ground with everyone else present. Well. _Nearly_ everyone."

"Nearly everyone?" Steve repeats.

"Oh," Loki murmurs, and his eyes gain a faraway look, his expression momentarily distant. "There was one man… He called himself the Grandmaster. The energy around him, it was ancient – far more ancient than my own, or even that of the eldest at the party. Do you know of the Elders, Steven?"

"The Elder whats?" Loki laughs, the sound punched out of him.

"The _Elders_ ," Loki repeats, "of the Universe. There are around twelve of them, I think, and they're the remnants of the very beginning of the universe. Billions upon billions of years old – when they use magic, the way it _feels_ …" Loki reaches out toward Steve, his hand moving toward Steve's face, and Steve instinctively leans away. Loki's lips part, and he draws back his hand as if burned. "My apologies. I didn't mean—"

"No, no," Steve says, shifting his position. "Just caught me by surprise, that's all. You can… You can do it." Loki leans forward, his index and middle finger touching against Steve's temple, the skin freezing cold, and—

 _You laugh at the young princess' joke, and you turn your head, drawn in by some strange energy. It settles upon the air like a spicy scent, and you breathe it into your lungs, positively spellbound, as your gaze settles upon its source: a tall gentleman in flowing, white robes, his hair silver and cropped about his head. When he turns to catch your gaze – of course he knew you were looking at him – you see that his eyes are rimmed with gold, and his skin is deepest blue._

 _"Hey there, pretty boy," he says, reaching out for you, and you look at his hand, a small smile coming to your face. "Don't we, ha, know each other from somewhere?"_

 _"I don't think so," you say. He grins, showing his white, white teeth, and you feel the energy upon the air, as if you are standing on the very edge of a sun: it radiates out from him, warming your skin, tingling upon your flesh – and you can see the other magic users in the room are the same as yourself, drawn to him just as you are._

 _"Loki," Strange's voice says behind you, his voice a low and resonant purr, "This is En Dwi Gast."_

 _"Ah ah ah," the stranger says, shaking his finger. "Call me the Grandmaster."_

 _"I'm not going to do that," you say, and the stranger laughs._

 _"See, you said that before!"_

 _"When?"_

 _"It was another life," Gast replies smoothly, and when you give him your hand, he brushes the backs of your fingers with his lips, his very skin alight with strange and foreign energies. The scent of him reminds you of the ends of the universe, where all extinct things appear in the end, and where all ghosts end up. "Don't you remember? You hate Yto fruit."_

 _"Of course I do," you reply. "It's much too sweet."_

 _"Exactly," Gast says. You frown, tilting your head. "You don't, ha, you don't remember me. It's alright. You will, in the end."_

 _"Not if it was another life," you say._

 _"He's always like this," Strange says, with some affection. "Shall we play a game, En Dwi?"_

Steve gasps, and Loki draws his hand away, carefully. "Doesn't he feel strange?"

"What did he mean?" Steve asks. "About my— Sorry, _your_ life?" It's disorienting, for a few seconds: he had felt he _was_ Loki, resting inside his skin, feeling his magic at his own fingertips, seeing through his eyes… But then again, that was the point, Steve guesses.

"I don't know," Loki admits, shrugging his heads. "I'm certain he isn't lying about having met me before, but it was another me. He admitted it freely, later on – said he had confused his universes." Loki says it casually, as if it doesn't matter, and Steve frowns, pressing his lips tightly together. "I took care not to ask too many questions."

"Why not?"

"That Loki is not me. I am not him." Loki stands from the bed, beginning to make his way across the room. "I must for my jog! Good morning, Steven!"

"Good morning, Loki," Steve murmurs, and as the door clicks shut behind him, Steve looks down at the breakfast Loki had made for him, and thinks of Loki _not_ having sex with Stephen Strange. _I see. You're jealous_. Shit, Loki. Maybe I am.

Despite himself, Steve grins, and begins to eat his meal in peace. It's been a _long, long_ time since he had breakfast in bed.


	9. Brought To Justice 9

"Do take my arm, Ms Maximoff," Loki says, quietly and kindly, and Wanda does not shy away from him, instead interlinking her arm with his own. Her arms are thick and strong with muscle and fat alike, and her clever hand rests easily in the crook of his elbow, as if she is well-used to being on another's arm. "Have you much travelled beneath the waves before?"

"No," Wanda murmurs. Again, she has that pensive, slightly melancholy look upon her face, shining deep within her deep brown eyes, but Loki comments not upon it: he has not any time he has seen it thus far, and certainly will not stoop to doing so now. She wears a flowing dress of deepest scarlet, its many skirts tilting about her ankles, and such a bustier – Wanda and Pietro Maximoff have each adapted to this new millennium in different ways, but either of them can easily embrace the classic with but a moment's thought, and Loki smiles. He himself, he wears a suit of black, only the open, green shirt giving a little colour to the proceedings.

It matters little. Namor is not overtly concerned in the things that other men wear.

They step upon the beach, the sand giving way beneath their feet, and although he can feel her anticipation beside him, feel Wanda's breathing hitch in her throat as she does her best to steady her inhalations and exhalations, she walks with him down toward the shoreline, until Loki's black, leather boots touch wash of the wave upon the shore and do not become wet. He sees her frown, her expression perplexed, as Loki draws her to keep walking with him, and as they walk out toward the ocean, the water parts away from them, soon allowing them into a tunnel of air as they reach the deeper part of the shore, stepping over stone and rock facing, avoiding pieces of debris that are scattered on the ocean floor.

"Isn't it an awfully long way to Atlantis?" Wanda asks him.

"It isn't so far as it seems," Loki answers softly. "Perhaps an hour's promenade. Is that alright?"

"An _hour_? Like this?" Wanda gestures to the tunnel that had been arranged for them, gestures to the ocean surrounding them on every side, a deep and dark expanse for miles and miles in each direction. In the distance, Loki can see a shipwreck, the wood rotted and old, and it fills him with a cool curiosity.

"You object?"

"Not in the _least_ ," Wanda says emphatically, a smile bursting across her deep, rounded cheeks, and Loki smiles at her, softly. Looking at her _smile_ so, he feels a warmth in his chest: his cheerful mood of the morning previous has not yet faded away, and as they walk arm in arm over soft, dry sand, where a path has been carefully cleared by the Atlanteans, he allows himself to marinate in it. "Loki? May I ask you a question?"

"Why we aren't teleporting?" Loki pre-empts the question, thinking of his recent _struggles_ with the spell. Being a Skywalker by nature, it has never been wholly necessary for him to perfect his dimensional transitways, being as he was a solitary and patient traveller, but now that he is more used to moving amidst a group… He needs to practice. "I'm afraid the danger of the dimensional transitway is multiplied a thousandfold when passing through great amounts of stone, earth or water, and I—"

"I know J'anara's Laws of Dimensional Shortening," Wanda interrupts him, and Loki blinks at her, closing his mouth. She reads it as misogyny, no doubt – _mansplaining_ – but he does not break in to speak over that experience, does not try to explain it away.

"My apologies: I ought not have assumed."

"It's alright," Wanda says, and she seems to genuinely _mean_ it, too, her hand squeezing lightly at his arm. "No, I wanted to ask… Why me? You're so close with Steve, or with Tony…"

"Steve and Tony can give me orders," Loki says, mildly. "I should rather enjoy my time amongst equals without being reminded of my bondage." Wanda frowns slightly, her brow furrowing, her painted lips twisting into a perplexed scowl.

"Then Pietro?"

" _Pietro?"_ Loki repeats, and laughs. "Have you ever attempted to accompany your brother to a party in your _life_? If I wished to begin a war with Atlantis, undoubtedly I would invite Pietro with me." Wanda laughs, shaking her head.

"I thought you liked him," she says.

"I do," Loki insists. "I look upon him quite favourably, in fact. But I do not pretend him to be something he is not, and his politeness extends only so long as his patience." Wanda's smile is light upon her lips, and Loki continues, quietly, "I thought you would enjoy an outing such as this. We have much in common, you and I."

"Do we?" Wanda asks, arching an eyebrow, but her tone is not arch in the least. "How so?"

"We are each siblings of foolhardy brothers. We are each excellent sorcerers. We both have _passing_ – at least – interests in fashion, and design."

"Our fathers," Wanda adds.

"Our children," Loki murmurs. One of Wanda's gloved hands touches against another, and she looks quietly pensive. "But you have found yours again recently, have you not?"

"Yes," Wanda says softly, nodding her head. "Thomas is a speedster, like his uncle, and he spends a great deal of time with Pietro, now. And Billy…" Wanda trails off, her expression thoughtful. "He reminds me of me. Is that an awful thing to say?"

"Not at all," Loki murmurs. "Often I watched my daughter taking solitary moments for herself, gazing out at the sea, and the melancholy in her eyes… I felt as if I was looking upon my very own ghost." Wanda sighs in quiet relief, shaking her head and drawing one of her plump lower lips into her mouth, tasting the wax of the lipstick upon her tongue.

"I can't talk about this to Pietro, or even to Lorna," she says in an undertone, as if even here, at the bottom of the ocean with thousands of square feet of water weighting down above their heads, she is worrying about being overheard. "And my father…" Loki nods his head, slowly, and he wonders if, _genuinely_ , really, she is going to impart upon him a secret! They have spoken only a handful of times, and this gesture had been little more than that: a gesture. An open hand. "You have no idea how people looked at me, after the House of M. You've read about it?"

"I have," Loki says.

"I was so desperate," she whispers. "I just wanted _peace_ , and my children, and… Family. Never in my life have I lived in such prosperity. It was the stuff of my maddest fantasies, and I was…" She trails off, her eyes distant.

"Magic drives many of us to madness," Loki says quietly. "In the end, few of us might host its power within us without some form of catastrophe. Your bending of reality was nothing, in the scheme of things." Wanda frowns slightly, turning to glance at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I have levelled planets in grief, or anger, even in boredom," Loki says. "I have done unthinkable things. But there is beauty as well, is there not? And once magic makes its home within us, there is no dissuading it." Wanda Maximoff looks at Loki as if he is old, and wise, but Loki does not feel as if he is either of those things. He expected the other sorcerer to ask him questions about _magic_ , or technique, or books, even… This is somewhat higher in consideration. "I do not judge you for the House of M, Ms Maximoff. I would have done much, much worse for my own children, even without being in a state of distress or unreality."

"Natasha says they took your children away from you. Asgard."

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "They did."

"They killed your wife?"

"They did."

"And they hate you, for using magic?"

"That isn't the only reason," Loki says quietly. Wanda's arm shifts in Loki's own, and her fingers intertwine with Loki's, her warm palm against Loki's own cold one, her gloved thumb drawing over the flesh of his skin. Such an intimate motion is strange, reminiscent of romantic relationships Loki has witnessed _Thor_ been in, but never experienced himself.

"Thank you," Wanda says softly.

"Thank _you_ ," Loki replies, surprised by how easily the words leave his mouth. He expects her to draw her hand away from his, but she doesn't, for a while.

 **15th June, 2012**

Tony watches Loki exercise. He's just come from a leisurely lunch with Pepper, and he has a _lot_ of paperwork to do today – he needs to squeeze in a run before he does anything else, but it's difficult to tear his eyes away and focus on the treadmill when Loki is doing _that_. Loki is shirtless, his pale chest all but shining in the bright lights of the training room, and he wears loose trousers that hug against his hips and ankles – like leggings, but looser around the legs and crotch. It's hypnotising to watch him move in the ring of sand he had created, four shadow-men each attempting to fight him and put him upon the ground, but Loki just keeps blocking their blows, dodging their chops and kicks, and whenever he sends one to the ground, it dissolves into dust before another one takes its place.

It's absolutely hypnotising to watch him work, to see the way he easily launches himself into the air and knocks the heads of the shadow-men together – and this is Loki without his magic _or_ his daggers, and Tony's seen him go through about fifty shadow people now, in the past half hour.

"You're not even breaking a sweat," he complains.

"I don't sweat," Loki replies, and he kicks a shadow-man so hard in the chest that it flies across the room and disappears into the ether before it hits the ground. Tony wonders what the shadow men feel like, if they're soft to the touch and hazy, like they look, or completely solid. "It would do my species no good."

"How come?"

"We are of the ice," Loki says, snapping the neck of one of the shadow-men with an eerie silence, then elbowing another in the solar plexus before tossing it to the ground. "Sweat would merely freeze. We have an extra layer of flesh that flattens itself in times of heat." Loki waves his hand, banishing all of the shadow-men at once, and then he reaches up, stifling a yawn in the palm of his hand. It's almost _cute_ , seeing him with his messy hair and the silver shining at his ear, shirtless and pale and _sleepy_.

"What, princess didn't get his beauty sleep?"

"Prince Namor made a loan of me some books from the Atlantean library," Loki says quietly, reaching up to rub at his eyes, and then he slips his hand into the pocket of his leggings, putting a pair of spectacles over his eyes. The impact it makes on his face is incredible – immediately, instead of a _warrior_ , Loki looks like an academic, his soles in the sand he had conjured. "I was up reading last night, and the night previous, the party—"

"God," Tony says, shaking his head. "You should go get some sleep."

"I can't," Loki says, "I—" Loki looks over Tony's shoulder, and a wide grin comes to his mouth, showing off his bright teeth. "Well, _well_ , look at the ugly little meteor that fell to Midgard."

"Me? Fall? Never!" Thor says delightedly, and Tony turns to glance at him as he runs toward his brother, grabbing Loki around the waist and lifting him off the ground, leaving Loki laughing and smacking his brother's shoulder to get him to put him down. Tony grins, walking up to Thor as he deposits Loki on the ground, and Tony shakes Thor's hand before giving him an easy little wave, and then he walks away toward the treadmill.

There are some things losing sleep for, he guesses.

Loki plucks his shirt from the ether, pulling it on and beginning to button it up over his chest as he and Thor take toward the stairs up to the communal area. Loki's boots are conjured onto his feet, and then he pulls a light sweater on over the collared shirt, pulling the shirt collar through the rounded collar of the wool. He had known Thor was coming since late yesterday morning, when he and Wanda had returned from the city of Atlantis and he had found the letter waiting for him, and he had been so anxious and uncertain he could scarcely close his eyes.

"Brother," Thor says, peering up at him. "You are wearing spectacles." Loki pushes the lenses a little further up his nose, gratified by the _perfect_ vision they return to him.

"It is of no concern, Thor," Loki says airily, doing his best to keep the care out of his voice. He had spent a good deal of last night perfecting the shape and scope of the lenses and then playing with the shapes of the frame to best suit his face. He had elected on golden wire frames, the square lenses mirroring the hard lines of his cheek bones. "Come, come, I will cook you something to—"

"And what's that in your ear?" Thor demands, concern heavy in his voice, and Loki decides to ignore the question, announcing to the room at large,

"Look, everyone, my brother is here!" Steven and Samuel, who are playing a game of chess against the window, glance in his direction, both of them looking at Loki as if he's grown a second head, and Bruce Banner glances up from the book he is reading at the dining table.

"Let me see," Thor says, ignoring Loki's attempt to deflect him into the wider group, and Loki attempts to dodge away, but Thor grabs him by the scruff of his neck and bodily _lifts_ him from the ground, leaving Loki struggling and kicking at him. "What is— Have you _pierced_ the—"

"Yes, I've pierced it, put me down!" Loki snaps, and he superheats his skin under the touch of Thor's skin, making Thor yelp as if burned and drop Loki to the ground. Thor is looking at him with absolute _horror_ painted on his cheeks, his lips parted, and Loki moves down the corridor and into his quarters, closing the door behind Thor as he enters. "Isn't this meant to be a _happy_ little meeting? A reunion?"

"Mother will be furious," Thor says quietly. He reaches out, putting his broad hands on Loki's cheeks and looking down into his eyes, his palms warm against Loki's stone cold cheeks. "The Æsir don't have _piercings_ , Loki." Loki reaches up, his hand settling against the back of Thor's own, his thumb stroking over his brother's heated skin.

"I'm not Æsir, Thor," Loki whispers. Without two months of distance between them, perhaps Thor would have broken away, stung by the words, but he does not: instead, he merely keeps his gaze on Loki's, his lips pressed loosely together, and Loki takes a step away, conjuring another chair for Thor to sit in as he slides down into his own armchair. Loki's armchair is straight-backed, winged and made of soft lilac, but the chair he conjures for Thor is heavier, more thickly cushioned, made of black leather… And Thor looks well in it. Loki knows his brother better than Thor would ever know. "The Jötnar _do_ have piercings."

"You consider yourself a Jötunn now, then?" Thor's tone is neither angry nor judgemental: it is merely soft, and pensive. How is it, he wonders, that Thor can look so much older with so few months between them… But no. It has been over a year since Loki has truly spoken to his brother. He is wearing, Loki sees, Midgardian clothes – a light grey shirt, a pair of wine coloured trousers, a jacket of dark brown leather.

"I am a Jötunn," Loki says, his tone measured and quiet. "I'm doing my best to… Unpack that." He draws his feet up beneath him, his boots melting away as his bare feet curl beneath his weight, and he loosely holds his hands in his lap, watching the other man. "How are you?"

"Without my brother," Thor murmurs, quietly. His blue eyes weight heavy upon Loki's face, and Loki had imagined Thor to be angry, defensive, loud and constantly talkative, but he is not! Thor is calm and thoughtful instead. He is much like the Thor in the letters Loki receives, his handwriting still rushed and terrible, but his _form_ … Much improved. "I miss you, brother." A pause passes between them, for Loki can see as yet that Thor has more to say, and Thor adds, "I wished to apologize."

"Apologize?" Loki repeats, tilting his head slightly to the side and watching his brother for a long few moments. "You would apologize for saving my life?"

"Yes," Thor murmurs, but then he leans forward, his elbows rested upon his knees, and his jaw set, his eyes far away. "I have mulled over and over what I might say to you… Loki, what passed between us as children, your jealous of me. Many times, I believe I have humiliated you, or injured you; many times, I have placed my happiness before your own. I want to apologize for _that_." It comes completely unexpectedly, and Loki stays still in his place, his lips pressed loosely together, his gaze on Thor's face. The apology settles well upon his shoulders, warm, like a cowl, and yet…

"You told them I was adopted," Loki murmurs. Thor hesitates for a long moment, and then he slowly nods his head. "That… hurt." Thor frowns at him, leaning back in his seat.

"Oh," he says, mild alarm showing on his face. "Are you… Alright?"

"Yes," Loki says, nodding his head, slowly. "But—" Loki feels a thousand thoughts swirl upon his tongue, swooping down from the nest of conflicting ideas that is his mind – he thinks of speaking of the treatment of the Jötnar, of the treatment of the argr, of the way he had felt growing up on Asgard, how _alone_ he had felt, for so very long… "I accept your apology, Thor. And I hope you will accept mine, for all that I have done. I only wished to be seen as your equal: I hope you believe that."

"I do," Thor murmurs. "You will not be exiled from Asgard forever." That… _rankles_ , some.

"It hardly matters either way, does it?" Loki queries, and Thor's blond brows furrow, knitting themselves together. "Well, Thor… I have my papers here. I am of this realm, now."

"You've been here _two months_ ," Thor says, leaning forward in his seat and examining Loki as if he has said something truly terrible, as if some horrid ichor has dripped out from between Loki's thin lips. "You cannot possibly see fit to stay here _forever_ – and if you are _ailing_ because of this planet—"

"My vision isn't failing me because of the planet," Loki interrupts, and Thor's eyes widen with alarm.

" _Failing_ you?"

"A temporary set-back," Loki says quietly. "A lingering injury from my time with my captors, where I was starved of my magic; I am applying a balm and performing meditative exercises to retrain my seiðr to work upon it, and my vision will be quite returned to me within six months."

"You won't go blind?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, no," Loki murmurs. "Thor, I am not coming back to Asgard. I never will." Thor lets out a sound of frustration, standing up from the seat, and he puts his hands in his pockets, beginning to pace up and down the length of Loki's bedroom, as Loki has seen him do a thousand times in Loki's quarters back in Asgard. "This is not a snub, Thor, this is not a personal—"

"And you mocked me for my connection to _Jane_ ," Thor says, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Here I thought I would find you, scheming, _desperate_ for your escape from this planet, and here you are stewing in it! Are you glad to be here?"

"Yes," Loki says.

"Are you _happy_ here?" Thor demands.

"Yes," Loki says again. "Or at least, I think I can be, think I will be." Thor looks down at Loki, his fists clenched at his sides, and he stares at him, examining his face in detail. Loki might have stirred or drawn away from Thor's stare, once upon a time, but no longer. He lets Thor look all he wishes, and he remains unmoving.

"You once told me," Thor says softly, "that you didn't think you were capable of happiness." There is hope on Thor's face, desperate hope, and Loki cannot _stand_ it, cannot stand how desperate Thor seems to draw Loki home with him.

"I know," Loki says, reaching for his brother's hand, feeling its weight in his own hand, feeling the warmth of Thor's blood in his veins, so _different_ to Loki's own, "that you will be a just and honourable king, and your children will bring you joy. Your life will be long, and happy, and I will be here, if you want to visit." There are tears shining in Thor's eyes, and they take Loki by surprise, making him lean back slightly away from his brother.

"You would have be _king_ ," Thor asks, his voice nearly cracking, "without my brother by my side?"

"Thor, this is more than an exile. This was a sentencing. I will be here for the rest of Steven Roger's _life_."

"That isn't so long," Thor murmurs, darkly, and he moves away from Loki, looking out of Loki's windows. If he realises they are enchanted, he does not say so. "And when you are free of your indentures?"

"I don't know," Loki says.

"Then what is your plan?"

"To fight as one of the Avengers. To serve Steven Rogers." Thor turns, his eyes alight with the crackle of thunder, and Loki feels his hair stand on end as the pressure in the room changes. "Temper, brother."

" _Serve_ him?"

"Of course, _serve_ him, that is the whole—" Thor is stalking toward the door, but before he can reach it Loki is around his neck, using his weight to bring Thor down to the ground, and Thor lets out a harsh sound: Thor attempts to elbow him between the twin cages of his ribs, but Loki blocks him, pressing the heel of his hand hard against Thor's eye and leaving him scrambling back, pained. "As I was saying," he mutters, taking to his feet. "There is nothing _untoward_ , Thor. I say _serve_ because that is what my magic binds me to do. He is a good man. Positively _incorruptible_ , in fact."

"You seem disappointed," Thor murmurs.

"What can I say? He's certainly handsome." Thor sits upon the ground, nursing his bruised eye, and Loki reaches out, pressing seiðr into the mark to heal it before it can blossom into a proper injury.

"You really mean it? You will never return to Asgard?"

"What is there for me in Asgard, Thor?" Loki asks. "Except for you?"

"Aren't I enough?" Loki watches him, for a long few moments, and then slowly shakes his head.

"No," he says, softly. "I have lost so many children to Asgard, Thor, and two wives."

"But that wasn't _me_ ," Thor begins, and Loki sighs.

"No, it wasn't. Asgard _isn't_ you, and you aren't Asgard." Loki speaks nearly plaintively, desperate for the other man to understand. "Thor, if you were, and vice versa, things would be different. But they aren't. I am better, away from Asgard, and Asgard is better for my absence – no one misses me except yourself and Mother, I would wager."

"Hogun—"

"Hogun does not miss me," Loki interrupts, cleanly.

"No," Thor admits. "I don't think he does. Will you marry again?"

"Marry? I think not. Why, is that your plan toward that _scientist_?" Thor shows his teeth, looking awkwardly away from Loki, and Loki shakes his head, letting out a short, amused sound.

"I cannot come to Midgard for her," Thor murmurs. "I have work to do. As prince regent—"

"Yes, I'm aware of what your duties entail," Loki says mildly. "You are here only for a day, then?"

"For three."

"I'm not spending three days with you," Loki says, point-blank. Thor stares at him, uncomprehending. "I have appointments tomorrow, and the next day."

"What manner of _appointments_ could you possibly have?"

"You may have me for today, and half of tomorrow. Then, you shall go visit your _Jane_."

"Who are you meeting tomorrow evening?"

"None of your business."

"Is it the same person the _next_ evening?" Thor is stepping slowly toward him, and Loki is shaking his head at Thor's slow, teasing queries. "Is it a woman?"

"I'm not having this discussion with you."

"Is she pretty?"

"I—" Loki's phone, which is upon his desk, begins to ring, and Loki's eyes widen, but before he can lunge for it Thor grabs him by his hair, making Loki cry out as Thor throws him onto the ground, and before he can move, the weight of Mjolnir drops into his lap, pinning him into place and knocking the wind out of his chest.

"Hello," the smooth, cultured voice on the phone says, and Loki wheezes out a breath. "I've reservations for _Daniel_ on the night after next. Will that be suitable?"

"I'm sorry," Thor says to Stephen Strange, and Loki attempts to gasp in a breath despite the weight of his brother's hammer on his chest. "My brother can't come to the phone right now. He's… Busy. I'll let him know about the dinner reservation."

"Your brother?" Stephen says on the phone, and Loki attempts to shift his shape to weasel out from beneath the hammer, but Thor shoots a crackle of electricity over his skin, and Loki writhes on the floor, letting out a hiss. "You must be Thor! My name is Stephen. Why, you must join us." Loki shakes his head emphatically, and Thor chuckles, kicking him in the sole of his foot.

"Oh, I can't that night," he says. "What about tomorrow? We can all get lunch together."

"Sounds lovely. Well, thanks for passing along the message."

"You're quite welcome," Thor says genially, "Good day, Stephen." Thor sets Loki's phone aside, then sweeps his hammer from Loki's chest, looking down at him with a grin on his face. "Tell me _everything_ about this man."

But Loki is already running.


	10. Brought To Justice 10

"I am terrible at this game," Steve says, about three moves in. Sam glances up at him, his lips quirking into a little grin. On some level, Steve knows he should be _good_ at chess – it's just military tactics, isn't it? It's just that, but on a square board, and it should be _fun_ , too, but…

"Me too," Sam admits, moving his knight across the board. "But I bet we look _really_ dignified right about now. Really, uh, really _smart_ , you know?"

"Shit, you're right," Steve agrees, slowly. He takes Sam's knight with his bishop, then frowns when a pawn takes it. "Of course, anyone looking at the board…"

"Best to just talk over it, I think," Sam says, leaning back in his seat, and Steve taps the side of his nose, doing the same. A pause passes between them, and then the both of them are laughing, sharing twin grins. It's incredible, Steve thinks, just how much they click together right off the bat – and sure, maybe Steve hasn't taken Sam up on the whole bedroom thing—

( _"Look, I… I'm kinda trying to avoid all that stuff right now, with anybody. Not that you're not really beautiful, or that I'm not… It's just been a lot to take in. Seventy years."_

 _"I get you, big guy," Sam had replied, quietly, and he'd quirked his lips into a warm little smile. "I was kinda just trying my luck. And, uh, you know, given the period—"_

 _"What, you thought Captain America was a homophobe and you were trying to test him?"_

 _"Look, for all I know, Steve, you are a homophobe," Sam had said mildly, shrugging his shoulders, and Steve had huffed out a sound, indignant, until Sam had shoved him playfully in the chest, and it had been like being back in the 40s with other soldiers, all over again, albeit a lot more liberal. Some things just stay the same, even though the times move on.)_

But that's not the end of everything. Sam just _gets_ him – and he's a good man. A damned good man. There are shadows under Sam's eyes, where the skin is just a little looser than it should be – he hangs out with Steve, and that's great, but is the guy getting enough _sleep_? Steve doesn't know. And he doesn't know yet if it's okay to ask.

"You getting deployed soon?" Steve asks instead, and Sam gives a slow nod of his head.

"Can't tell you where," he says, and Steve nods his head – he understands, of course he does. That's the thing about him and Sam: there's a baseline of mutual understanding, and there's something about Sam that just makes him feel comfortable, at ease, even as the world's moved on around him. "So. Two months in the twenty-first century – how's it feel?"

"Fast," Steve says quietly. He thinks of Peggy in her hospital bed, the two of them sipping tea together for hours on end. New York had always been fast-paced, he'd thought as a kid in Brooklyn, but now? Jesus Christ, now it runs so fast Steve feels like it's gonna spin right off its axis, leave him gasping in space. "Real fast. But… I dunno. It's better, of course it is. Brooklyn in the 40s was a different thing – we all looked after each other, 'cause we had to. No one else was gonna do it. I shared a flop with my friend Bucky, but in that block, there were other Irish, a rabbi, a pair of soldiers who came over from the Caribbean… I dunno. I know it's better, I'm not trying to say it isn't."

"But it's different," Sam murmurs, understandingly, and Steve nods his head.

"I grew up seeing corpses after the wrong rumours, Sam. It's pretty wild to see men holding hands on TV, or girls arm-in-arm in the street. Maybe I'm naïve, I dunno, but I can't… What the Hell did you call it?"

"Gaydar," Sam says. God, what is the _obsession_ with portmanteaus these days? Steve shakes his head, slowly, and he taps his fingers on his knee.

"But how do you know?" Sam shrugs.

"Just do, I guess. Some guys have it, some don't." Sam leans on the arm of his chair, his hand on his chin as he looks at Steve, and _God_ , he isn't so young, not really. People keep acting like Steve's really ninety years old, but he isn't: he's the same age he was when they put him in the ice, and it's not his fault it's all changed so much. "You been in any of the gay bars yet?"

"Nah," Steve murmurs. "Still trying to get my head around a lot of the, uh, the labels. The culture, I guess. It's one thing for me to act weird in a supermarket, 'cause people just brush it off – it's another if I come off weird in a gay bar. S'meant to be somewhere they feel safe, right?" Sam nods his head. "There was a scene, sure there was, but I liked girls just fine, and if I got arrested, I'd never have been allowed to stay in the military. My medical record was bad enough."

"It isn't perfect now," Sam murmurs. "Don't ask, don't tell was only repealed last year. We can't afford to get… Complacent, I guess, with any of it. Racism's still there; homophobia's still there. There's still rough spots. And what about Loki?" Steve glances up from where his gaze had wandered to the board, and he sees the intent, focused look in Sam's eyes – he's smart, perceptive. It isn't just a _gaydar_ thing. And sure, nothing's _going on_ between Steve and Loki, but that doesn't mean Sam's blind.

"He's used to different attitudes for different planets, I think," Steve says. The answer is evasive: he and Sam both know it. But Sam doesn't press. He's gonna let that one lie, at least for now, and Steve feels awkward for a few seconds, wondering if he's coming across as stupid to Sam, or all paternalistic.

"You wanna watch a movie later?" Sam asks, casually. Steve feels a little relief in his chest as he opens his mouth to reply, but—

"Look, everyone!" Loki says from the doorway, slightly desperately. At his shoulder, there stands Thor.

Steve sits at the head of the table, and he takes another piece of the _massive_ lasagne he had watched Loki make from scratch not a half hour before. Four different knives had been chopping vegetables at once, even as he made his tomato and Béchamel sauces from scratch, and Steve had been absolutely _spellbound_ , watching the ease with which he cooked.

And the lasagne? It's pretty damned good.

Usually, at dinners, Loki is quiet and reserved, eating his food politely and _mostly_ listening to other people speak. It's not that he acts as if he's under some kind of gag order, but he's quiet and mostly answers questions only when they're directed at him already, or explains a short thing and then goes back to silence.

This Loki?

He's pretty different.

"So I'm _covered_ in blood by this point, absolutely none of it mine, and I burst into the room looking like— Anthony," Loki's hand touches Tony's, and Steve sees Tony's eyes widen at being called by his _first name_ , apparently for the first time, "That Stephen King film—"

" _Carrie_ ," Tony says, grinning, and Loki returns to gesticulating widely.

"Looking like the young protagonist of _Carrie_ , and there's Thor, sprawled on a chaise long with a glass of wine in his hand and the princess' _cat_ in his lap, and he just says," Loki's hair changes colour, a thick blond beard sprouting around his face, and he says in a gruff approximation of Thor's voice, obviously intended to be mocking, " _Oh, Loki, don't worry. I'm taking care of it!"_

Pepper laughs so hard she snorts some of her drink out of her nose, and the whole table is laughing, Thor included. The older Asgardian has a rosy flush across his cheeks, and he sips at his drink, shoving Loki ruggedly in the side, and Loki laughs, looking down at his plate. It's wonderful to see him so comfortable speaking at _length_ , and—

Kinda abruptly, all his normal hyperpoliteness is _gone_. The guy looks completely at ease. Steve watches as he moves his hands with ease before his face, and Clint reaches for the green beans, handing them over to Loki so that he can put a little more upon his plate.

"How long are you here for, Thor?" Steve asks, and Thor turns to look at him, his expression remaining serious for a second before it warms slightly. Steve can see Sam watching Thor like he's some kind of new puzzle, visibly _interested_ , and he's glad to have the guy for dinner with the rest of 'em.

"Three days only," he says. "Although I shall only be here in New York until tomorrow afternoon."

"He has invited himself for lunch with myself and a friend," Loki says disapprovingly, and Steve's lips twitch. God, what he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in _that_ conversation – Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, at a table with Loki _and_ his brother. _It shoulda been you_ , says a voice in the back of his head, and Steve feels the fork bend slightly in his hand as he grips it a little too hard. Thor grins, looking very satisfied with himself, but he doesn't reveal anything further, instead ruffling his hand through Loki's hair, and immediately a lot of it comes out from his bun, frizzing up at the static from his brother's hand. Within a _second_ , grease has slicked its way through Loki's hair, and he draws the ribbon out of it, leaving it to hang limply about his shoulders.

"We met with Prince Namor yesterday, Thor," Wanda says, her voice quiet and warm, giving Thor a pleasant smile. "Loki and I strolled from Coney Island out to the city of Atlantis itself."

"Oh, wow," Pepper murmurs, leaning forward. "How was _that_?"

"At one point, a sperm whale swam right over our heads. It was— _huge_." Wanda laughs, softly, and Steve can still see the spellbound look in her eyes, the way they defocus as she thinks of how it had _looked_ … Loki is smiling as he looks at Wanda, the expression warm, and indulgent.

Steve glances to Clint, who signs something to Loki. Nat sniggers, and Loki clucks his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head, but Thor is already replying, making hugely exaggerated gestures as he uses the ASL, and Steve can see Clint's eyes getting wider and wider as Thor continues to talk.

"I'm not going to translate this," Loki says, in evident disgust. "It is _filthy_." Nat is murmuring to Sam, Tony, Pepper and Wanda as Thor continues to talk through ASL, apparently too focused on making his movements as audacious as possible to speak himself, and Loki takes the opportunity to lean toward Steve.

"Tell me about Namor yesterday," Steve says, and Loki turns to look at him, _smiling_. It doesn't occur to Steve until halfway through Loki's casual conversation that his words were probably construed as an order, but… Loki doesn't seem to mind. Steve feels guilt in his chest, dragging at his belly, and his heart, but Loki looks at Steve with his eyes soft and his lips slack, and he looks—

"How was _your_ day?" Loki asks, putting his chin upon his hand and giving Steve his _full_ attention.

"Made better with your cooking," Steve murmurs. Loki laughs, showing his teeth, and Steve realizes that as the conversation further down the table has moved onto some ridiculous antics Tony got up to last year, Thor's gaze has landed on Steve's face. It still has that thoughtful, distrustful undertone to it, and Steve presses his lips together. "I didn't get up to much. Played chess with Sam, read a little… We watched a movie."

"What film?"

" _Good Will Hunting_."

"Oh," Loki says, and he nods his recognition.

"I thought you hated film and television?"

"Oh, I do," Loki says. "But I can read _TV Tropes_." Steve laughs, and he leans back as he watches Loki engage Bruce in a conversation about versatile polymers which his trousers can be crafted of. He doesn't know what Bruce is more surprised at – the fact that Loki is speaking so openly, freely and _easily_ about something so heavily based in technology or science, or the fact that Loki calls him _Bruce_.

Later on, Loki washes dishes while arguing in-depth with Natasha about something or other Steve can't understand – it's all in thick Russian, and although occasionally Clint will throw in a word or two, for the most part they're speaking amongst themselves, but given how obvious both of them are being about their opinions, Steve would assume it's something relatively low-stakes – ballet, or art, maybe.

Sam is sitting on the table, and he's talking casually with Tony, the two of them exchanging back-and-forth conversation. They're talking about baseball scores initially, but from what Steve can grasp, the two of them are bouncing around talking about a few different sports at once, and Wanda has Pepper's hands in her lap, painting her nails with some complex design as Pepper laughs, doing her best not to fidget away.

"I'll do yours next," Wanda says to Bruce, and with the little smile on Bruce's face, you'd think he'd wanted his nails done all his life.

"Steven," Thor says, quietly, breaking Steve out of his reverie, and he turns to look at the taller man. It's weird, how comfortable Thor looks in Earth clothes – Steve had kinda expected him to be a bit… Off in them. But he isn't. "Might I speak with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Steve says, and he takes his jacket off the back of his chair, gesturing for the other man to follow him, and he and Thor begin to walk down the stairs toward the entrance of Avengers Tower, stepping out into the street. Thor has been here since late morning, but for nearly the whole day, he seems to have spent it in Loki's room, the two of them talking at length.

Steve supposes they have a Hell of a lot to talk about.

"He tells me he's happy here," Thor says, as soon as Steve and Thor step out into the warm summer air, and Steve glances at him, surprised. It's not yet dark, but the sun is beginning to make its way in the direction of the horizon, and Steve sticks his hands in his pockets, walking side by side with Thor.

"That's good," Steve says. "Right?"

"I didn't expect it," Thor admits, quietly. He isn't as arrogant as he had been a few months ago, seems just a bit more… Chilled out. "He looks at you as if you are his sun." There is something stiff and sharp about the way he says the words, and Steve turns to take Thor's gaze, which is positively severe.

"You got something you wanna say to me?" Steve asks, standing his ground.

"He says you refused him."

"I did," Steve says. "Thor… There's a consent issue here. If I just… I dunno, if I just said something offhand in the bedroom, he'd be _bound_ to it, whether he wanted to be or not. It's bad enough he doesn't have a choice in the day to day stuff, let alone stuff like _that_."

"I don't think Loki considers such things, Steven," Thor murmurs, but his gaze has softened, and a lot of the hardness he had pent up, the stiffness in his shoulders, seems to have faded away. "Long as he chided me for my tendency to act upon impulse, but in his movement to lovers, _always_ he has been…" Thor trails off, as if realizing he is about to say something he shouldn't be, and so he shrugs his shoulders. "I merely wished to ensure you were in no way abusing your power over him. What do you think of Strange?"

Steve is silent for a long few seconds. Again, he thinks of Strange bent into Loki's space, think of Strange's mouth so close to Loki's own, and he clenches his fists in the safety of his pockts, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. "That's early days, yet. They only had their first date the night before last."

"You do not approve," Thor says. He's strangely perceptive, for a damned viking from space.

"No," Steve admits. "But I told Loki, I'm not gonna stop him from doing what he wants, in that respect. He can choose his own friends, his own… Partners. I can't keep him on that short a leash."

"Who is Strange?" Thor asks.

"He's the Sorcerer Supreme," Steve says. "Which, uh, Wanda says is kinda a big deal, and Loki seems to think is worth about as much as a participation trophy."

"Loki has never held much respect for any magical accolades," Thor murmurs quietly. "Arguably, the Sorcerer Supreme is the most powerful individual in any given universe, but… He doesn't see it that way. He doesn't really believe in power being something calculable, nor something static."

"Do you agree with him?" Steve asks, and Thor hums, then shrugs his broad and mighty shoulders.

"It hardly seems my place to agree or disagree. Magic is Loki's area of expertise, not my own, and he is the greatest sorcerer Asgard has ever known, barring Amora the Enchantress." Steve stares at Thor, uncomprehending for a second or two, and Thor's lips quirk into a small smile. "I never knew my brother to be humble. He told you not?"

"He's carefully avoided comparing himself to anybody on Asgard," Steve admits. "I even have a file he made for me, of all his skills written out on the page, and there was no way to know how it compared to other Asgardians."

"A file of his skills?" Thor whistles, lowly. "What I would trade for such bountful information… He really must tell you the truth, when you ask it of him?"

"Yes," Steve says.

"That must wound him," Thor murmurs. "Long has my brother worn deception as a winter's coat. He feels the chill without it." Steve nods his head, slowly, and he looks out over the sky, which is still brightly blue but is threatening to change colour at any moment. "Your Avengers, they seem to enjoy his company."

"More than he lets them," Steve admits. "Tonight… I don't know, he's been kinda walking on eggshells with everyone for the past few months. Keeping everyone at arm's length. I've had to tell him off a few times for getting nasty with people just for being friendly. Tonight, though, he's— I don't know. Vibrant. Full of life. You bring that out of him, I guess."

"I had worried we would never return to the way we once were," Thor says, in the tone of a confession, "but he seems to have settled once again at my side as if he was meant to be there always. And yet he tells me he shall never return to Asgard, even when your life is over, and his shackles are broken."

"I don't think my life is gonna be as short as the average Earthling's," Steve says, and Thor turns his head, his eyes widening.

"Oh, Captain, my apologies, I did not mean—"

"It's okay," Steve says. "I know, I know. We're just mayflies compared to you guys. Is this all you wanted to ask about? Strange?" Thor nods his head, slowly, and he sighs.

"I worry for my brother, Steven. I so convinced myself his genial tone in his letters was merely a farce, intended to assuage my worries, and yet… He seems prosperous here. He seems content."

"Good," Steve murmurs. "'Cause it's hard to tell sometimes."

"Let us return," Thor murmurs, and Steve falls into step with him.

"The story of Christ in Galilee, with the exorcism," Loki says, and Samuel leans back in his seat, looking at him. It is somewhat frustrating to look through the lenses of the spectacles on Loki's nose, as they rather limit his peripheral vision, but this is _fine_.

"Which version?"

"Which _version_ ," Loki says, and he scoffs. "The original written in _Mark!_ What is the sense of repeating oneself in the gospels in—"

"Because the Bible isn't just a _book_ , it's a lot of books and documents collated together."

"Ridiculous," Loki says, and Samuel laughs at him, shaking his head.

"Go on, then," Samuel says, his tone full of challenge. "Tell me why _that one's_ your favourite."

"It's realistic," Loki says simply. "I've noticed there is a prevailing narrative that Christ was well-loved where ere he went, but of course, that isn't true. The Christians were as yet new in their bones, heavily preceded by the Hebrews as merely one example, and Christ was positively _reviled_ in many circles. The crucifixion was hardly a surprise. And so when one examines the story of the Gerasene demoniac, where he saved a man at the price of hogs – a sacrifice we might easily see in any modern iteration of such an exorcism – and they ask that he _leave_ … A simple act of kindness weighted against the fear of the unknown, and the weight of livestock…" Loki trails off, and he realises that Samuel is watching him with his brows furrowed, his head tilted to the side.

"When did you read the New Testament?" he asks, quietly.

"Some weeks past. After I finished the Old Testament, and the Tanakh, and the Quran."

"The Tanakh is the Jewish bible, right?"

"I shouldn't call it that," Loki advises, thinking of the way Pietro had responded – most explosively – when Loki had compared the two. "There is a long history of the Jewish holy texts being redigested through a Christian lens." Samuel Wilson is looking at Loki as if Loki is something deeply complicated, as if he's never seen something like Loki before.

"You're really trying, huh?" Loki furrows his brow.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not throwing the Bible around to get a rise out of me," Samuel says. "You're trying to assimilate." Loki leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and crossing one leg over the other, but Samuel's gaze remains intent, focused. Loki will give him this – the man displays no fear in the least.

"I am learning," Loki says archly. "You would rather I did not?"

"It just seems weird to me," Samuel admits, shrugging his shoulders. "My dad was a preacher, you know. Most respected minister for miles around, really. He got gunned down, protecting others, and I— I don't know. Religion isn't important to everybody, but it's important to me. And I know that the way it's important to me isn't ever gonna be important to you."

"Even divinities believe in higher powers," Loki says delicately. He does not see fit to explain the precise importance of the Norns at this moment, but perhaps he ought bear the concept in mind. "I do not need to convert to make myself abreast of world religions. I wouldn't call it _assimilation_." That seems to make Samuel thoughtful.

"You say it like it's a bad word."

"Perhaps it is." Loki reaches up, touching the bar through his ear, feeling its cold silver beneath his fingers. "I must seem so…" He trails off, unsure how best to speak on, and then he shakes his head, slowly. "I mean not to be hostile to those who integrate with the cultures they join. It would not be unfair to say I have my own issues in that regard: I hardly wish to speak for others."

"I guess I just didn't expect a planet-invading megalomaniac to try to do the whole "yeah, I'm woke," thing," Samuel says, evenly. There isn't hostility in his tone so much as curiosity, and Loki frowns at him.

"Woke," Loki repeats. "Would you define that for me?"

"It means you're aware of current affairs, into social justice. Stuff like that," Samuel explains, and Loki frowns.

"I would not use that descriptor," he says, gravely. "We aren't speaking on current affairs – we're speaking of events two thousand years ago." Loki is discomfited, and he taps his fingers against the fabric of his chair, looking at the other man for a long few moments, and then he says, "My apologies. I have upset you."

"Nah, you haven't," Samuel replies. "Just you and Thor, it's… It's hard for a religious guy to get his head around something like that. You get that, right? You get why it's hard?"

"He is God in heaven above and on the earth below; there is no other."

"Deuteronomy," Samuel murmurs. "You got a photographic memory or something?"

"I have an ear for quotes," Loki replies evenly. "I couldn't recite the texts from memory, but I recall passages."

"I probably _could_ recite the thing from memory," Samuel admits. "I read that thing a lot. My dad died, and the next year my mom was gone too… There were some nights where I just couldn't do anything, just read the Bible from cover to cover. Made me feel closer to them, somehow, I guess."

"Is that why you became a social worker?" Loki asks, and Samuel's eyebrows raise, showing surprise. "I do listen when you speak at the dinner table, Samuel. You think I do not?" Samuel's features are handsome, and in the evening light that shines in through the windows, his eyes are bright with fire. Loki notices the eyes are dry, and slightly red – he knows of the support group Samuel Wilson runs, and he wonders if this disorder comes with nightmares. _Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…_

"Yeah, I guess so," Samuel says. "I wanted to help people. Not just 'cause the Bible said so, but that was a contributing factor. How about you?" Always the _questions_. Is Samuel so natural an interrogator?

"What do you mean?"

"How come _you_ want to help people all of a sudden?" Abruptly, Loki is aware that Samuel is not aware of the arrangement under which Loki is bound, and for a long few moments he is entirely silent, looking at the other man. Loki is under orders not to reveal the precise nature of his situation to those who are not already aware (as Xavier and Strange had been within moments of meeting him), but how best to phrase his excuses? "What? You not got an answer for that one?"

"I am trying to be better." It is all Loki says, and he says it just as Steven and Thor return from their sojourn outside – he sees that Steven hears his words, and he shifts his position in his seat, forcing himself to loosen his stiff stance. "For the longest time, Samuel, I have been the monster in the shadows. Odin sent me here instead of imprisoning me within the bowels of Asgard: the least I might do is make something of my service."

"You think you deserve it? A redemption?" Samuel asks, and Loki sees Steven step forward behind him, but Loki puts up a hand to stop him.

"No," Loki says quietly. "But I can _try_ to be worthy of it. I won't bring up the Bible with you again."

"No," Samuel says, shaking his head. "Bible's just fine with me. I just— I kinda thought you were getting at something. We're good, Loki. I just keep forgetting you're an alien."

"People keep saying that to me," Loki murmurs mildly, his lips twitching. Would they continue to forget, he wonders, if they saw him as he _is_? Saw his blue flesh, his red eyes, the horns that are growing from his very skull?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Steve keeps his gaze on Loki, and then he taps Sam's shoulder, catching his attention. Sam turns to look at him, and the communication that passes between them is entirely silent: arching his eyebrows, Steve says, without saying, _You and him okay?_

And equally silently, with a short nod of his chin, Sam replies, _Yeah. We're fine._

"I was just saying to Thor, I was figuring we should go out. Take Thor to an Irish session."

"A session of what?" Loki asks, visibly perplexed, and Steve can't help the laugh that bubbles up in his throat.

"You'll see," Steve says. "Hey, guys, drinks on me."

They're upstairs in an Irish bar Steve's been in before – there's no session on tonight, but this building has been here since Steve was a kid, and it's where he drank his first beer, where he kissed his first girl, where he and Bucky would come after a celebration. It's cramped, and a little too hot, and dark, but the standing piano is the same one Steve learned to play on, even if the bar itself has changed hands. They'd let the group of them upstairs, and Steve wonders how many ground rules he really has to set – like _no magic_ , and _no fighting_ and _don't get so drunk I have to carry you._

But no, no. Everyone's sat around, settling down as Loki meticulously and fastidiously takes drinks from the tray in his hand, setting them before those who had ordered them. Loki had broken out a bottle of something that had made Thor cheer his delight, and Steve wonders if it'll work on _him_ … It's something to think about.

He sits down at the piano stool, letting his fingers run across the keys, and he begins to play a few experimental chords, feeling a hand at his shoulder. The hand is warm, so it isn't Loki – he turns to meet Nat's eye, and she looks over his shoulder at the keys.

"I didn't know you could play," she says softly, patting him on the shoulder. It doesn't make him uncomfortable, having her so close, and on some level, that surprises him.

"Yeah, there was no TV," Steve says, in a mild tone. "We had to make our own fun. Sing our own songs. Loki!" Loki turns from where he had been pouring his brother a glass of something golden and syrupy. "Can I have some of that?" Loki laughs, sharing a glance with his brother, and then he nods, passing Thor a pint and pouring another for Steve. There's much more in the bottle than should be physically possible, it seems to him, but who knows what kind of stuff Loki's drinking?

Loki walks over, setting the glass on the low table beside the piano, and he looks at the instrument thoughtfully, his fingers stroking over the wood."The X-Factor is en route. Remy LeBeau asked Wanda if they might join us, and she agreed."

"It's gonna be a real party," Steve says, reaching for the glass, and he examines it, thoughtfully. It both looks and _smells_ like beer, and he brings it to his nose, inhaling the heavy, hoppy scent of it before taking a sip. It's lighter than he expected, filled with fruity undertones and a slightly sour aftertaste, and he runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, thoughtful. "What's the percentage on this?"

"We don't measure percentages," Loki murmurs, and Steve sees Natasha's eyebrows raise. "But Thor goes from sober to tipsy in one, to inebriated with two, to…"

"Banjaxed?"

"Indeed."

"I'll drink it slow," Steve assures him, and Loki inclines his head. "Can you sing?"

"I don't sing," Loki says. Not _actually_ what Steve asked, but okay.

"How about you, Nat?"

"No," she says.

"Both of you are filthy liars," Steve pronounces, and Loki and Nat exchange a glance before walking away from him. It feels good to have Steve's hands on the keys, to feel the shift and movement of his fingers and the muscles in his hands, his wrists held aloft as he was always taught. How many times has he sat at this piano, in this bar? How many times? He feels a vague ache in his chest as he thinks of the last time he was here, thinks of being here without Bucky, with just Peggy beside him… Yeah. That won't do him any good. "Anyone else here play an instrument?" There is a resounding silence. "Come on, Tony, I _know_ you play the guitar."

"Let's have a few drinks first, Cap," Tony calls across the room. "We can sing later." Steve sighs, pulling himself up from the piano, and he drops into a seat beside Sam, immediately finding that Nat leans back in her own chair, crossing her legs in his lap. Steve pats her ankles, amused, and can't find it in him to throw her off. "What is _that_?"

"You can't have any," Loki says immediately, and Tony crosses his arms over his chest, _looking_ at Loki. Loki holds a tall glass in his hand, and inside it, swirling with shiny, glittery notes, there is a liquid that is entirely black. A light steam comes off it, and even from here, Steve can smell the citrus in it. "It is a spirit brewed from the Grappa fruit."

"The _Grappa_ fruit?" Sam repeats. "What's that?"

"It is a citrus that grows on Nakom," Loki says. "It is not suitable for human consumption."

"Let me try it," Steve says, and he can see the struggle on Loki's face for a second before he says, "I mean… _Can_ I try it?"

"No," Loki says resolutely. "It will injure you. It would injure Thor." Steve puts out his hand, and Loki frowns at him, shaking his head. " _No_."

"Your tolerance can't be _that_ much higher than his," Steve says, nodding in Thor's direction, and Thor laughs, clapping his hand upon Steve's back.

"The Grappa fruit is an acquired taste, Steven. I would not taste it were I you."

"Go on, Loki," Steve says. "How bad can it be?"

"I will allow you to taste a _droplet_ , from my finger," Loki says. "But no more."

"What, like a baby with whiskey?" Loki frowns at him, tilting his head to the side, and Steve says, "It's an old teething ritual. Okay, fine, fine." He leans in closer, and Loki dips one of his clean, white fingers into the black swirl of liquid, leaning forward and dropping a single droplet onto Steve's waiting tongue. He had thought he could make this erotic, make it vaguely _sexy_ , even, but—

" _Agh_ ," Steve hisses, clapping his hand over his mouth as it _burns_ with pain, and Loki is already grasping at his chin over the low table between them, sending magic bursting through his skin. "Isth thad acid?" he mumbles, feeling the chunk of tongue that had sizzled away slowly being returned to him, and Loki nods his head. "Why are you _drinking_ that?"

"I like it," Loki says. "The Grappa fruit is a delicacy for tongues that can withstand it."

"Why do I feel like you're somehow talking down to my tongue?"

"I might be, a little bit."

"It's gonna get you drunk, though?"

"Oh, _very_ drunk _,"_ Loki agrees, and Steve grins.

About halfway through Steve's first pint, the night becomes hazy in his memory, and the next morning, clutching at his aching head, he remembers it only in snatches.

Everyone is cheering, drumming their hands upon the table or stamping their feet upon the ground, and Sam grits his teeth, gripping at Nat's arm a little harder, but Nat doesn't budge in the slightest, and Sam seems to become a little bit more in love with her every second that ticks by.

"You want me to take mercy on you?" she asks, and Sam laughs, breathily.

"Oh, yeah," he says, and lets out a short groan as she slams his hand into the table, winning her fourth arm-wrestling match of the night.

"Never have I ever, uh," Steve trails off, trying to think of something good. "Never have I ever been married." As one, Loki and Thor each take their drinks and sip. So do Clint and Wanda.

"You're so tame," Sam mutters, shaking his head. "Never have I ever had sex in front of an audience."

"How big is an _audience_?" Thor asks, and Steve hears Bruce cough into his drink – water. Bruce doesn't get drunk.

"Uh," Sam says, "More than two people watching?" Thor and Loki share a glance, shrug, and knock their drinks back. "Is there anything you guys _haven't_ done? You've not gone a single one of these rounds without drinking."

"Never have I ever," Loki says, artfully, "had an inappropriate relation with a _goat_." Steve feels his gaze flit down to the column of Loki's throat, and he swallows.

"My relations with my goats are not inappropriate," Thor says immediately, and within seconds he and Loki are wrestling on the ground.

It takes five minutes for Loki and Thor to learn every damned line of Whiskey In The Jar, and when they sing it, they all sing together.

At some point, Pietro Maximoff and Remy LeBeau arrive, and there is a moment where Steve sits amidst the group of all the people gathered, and not a single person is speaking English. He smiles.

This is what it's about.

Pietro is playing the fiddle, easily, as if he's been doing it his whole damned life, not even a _little_ fast, and Loki is laughing with him as he joins in harmony, playing a round instrument that resembles an accordion. When Pietro begins to sing, it is plain he is doing it for Loki alone, making the god _beam_ , but Wanda joins in with him, harmonising on his every note, and they all go quiet, watching the twins make music together.

It's not a song Steve knows, but he recognizes it as something Polish, and whatever it is, it is bright, and joyful, and he's never seen Pietro or Wanda look so _content_.

Everyone's pretty drunk. Thor, Clint and Tony are trying to make a castle out of beer mats; Nat is in Sam's lap, her lips against his, his hands in her hair; Wanda and Pietro are trying to explain something to Remy, but both of them are drunkenly arguing with one another and slurring their words; Bruce and Pepper are engaged in a very serious conversation, which is only partly hampered by the fact that Pepper is red in the face and _hammered_ , and Bruce is stone-cold sober.

Loki is sitting on the ground, holding the guitar he had conjured for Tony to play earlier, and his fingers play absently over the strings. It sets Steve on fire to see his fingers move so easily, and in his drunken haze, he thinks of clambering on top of Loki right here, kissing him for all to see.

"I didn't know you played anything," Steve says, aware of the way he is swaying slightly with the lilting music, and Loki chuckles, quietly. There is a lilac flush to his pale cheeks, and his usually pink lips are blue: some of his illusions are all over the place, but he's trying anyway, and Steve would guess Loki's not been this drunk in a _long_ time. "Play me something. You know anything from Earth?"

He doesn't expect Loki to do it, and he doesn't expect Loki to sing, but Loki's voice is sweet, and sorrowful, and low, as if he hasn't sung in thousands of years. And the whole time, the whole _damned_ time, his eyes are on Steve's, hazy with drink and full of heat.

 _"Thinking it over, I've been sad,_  
Thinking it over, I'd be more than glad  
To change my ways, for the asking…

 _Ask me and I will play."_

In the bed beside him, a body stirs, and Steve turns to look at Loki, who is slowly sitting up, his pale skin back to all white, the blue and lilac tinges to his body gone. Steve stares at him, feeling first a burst of possession, then guilt, dry-mouthed and full of shame, but Loki just turns to glance at him with a soft smile.

"Are you very hungover?" he asks, quietly. "You were rather far gone last night."

"Why are you in my bed?"

"You don't remember?" Loki chuckles, fondly. "Thor fell asleep in my bed, and he snores so terribly; my magic was in no state to move him, so I fell asleep here with you. I ought brew that hangover cure, oughtn't I?"

"We didn't do anything?" Steve presses, and Loki frowns.

"No," he says quietly, looking slightly wounded. "We were each much too drunk." He looks so _confused_ , as if Steve wouldn't want to take the opportunity to take Loki to pieces, as if, as if— What the Hell is wrong with him?

"You serenaded me," Steve says, hazily.

"You ordered me to." Steve watches Loki as he stands from the bed, wearing loose green leggings, and he feels something stir in the pit of his stomach, sees the corded muscle of Loki's naked back, the rounded curve of his ass through the leggings, the thickness of his thighs.

"You don't have to take my words literally," Steve says quietly. "From now on, when something's an order, I'll tell you so."

"It's nearly eleven," Loki murmurs, apparently not listening to him. "Thor and I are meeting Stephen at one, so I suppose I ought raise him and get him to bathe."

"Please," Steve mumbles, sitting up in bed. The light streaming through the windows is _painful_ , and Loki turns to look at him. "Come sit here for a while." Loki seems to take pity on him, and he steps forward, clambering onto the bed and conjuring a vial from the air, which he puts to Steve's lips. When he drinks it, he feels the hangover – the headache, the heavy sweat, the dry mouth – all fade away. He combs through his memory, but he remembers only patches and snapshots – he remembers pouring Sam into the back of Tony's limo, remembers all of them falling over each other to get it, and he remembers Loki carrying him up the stairs as everyone else took the elevators. "Do you get hungover?"

"No," Loki says.

"How come?" Loki shrugs.

"I don't know." Steve hands the vial back.

"Did I make you uncomfortable last night? Did I do anything to make you feel… Unsafe?"

"No," Loki says, arching his eyebrows slightly. "I gave you mead, Steven, not the wine of Bacchus. As soon as my head touched your pillow I was sleeping quite soundly. You gave me no orders at all, after I sang to you."

"When was the last time you sang?" Steve asks, and Loki sighs, softly.

"Approximately?" he says. "One thousand or so years ago. I sang lullabies to my the children of myself and Angrboða, to put them to bed."

"What about yours and Sigyn's children?" Loki slowly shakes his head. Steve can feel something feral and desperate in his chest as he looks at Loki's bare chest, his messy hair, his eyes. It's just from the alcohol, he guesses, but he is so full of _want_ — He could grab Loki right here, press his face against the glass of Steve's bedroom and fuck him for all the world to see, fuck him so soundly he couldn't so much as _walk_ after, let alone go out for lunch with Stephen Strange. "Did you understand what I said? That unless I _say_ it's an order, it's not an order?"

"I understand," Loki murmurs.

"Come here," Steve whispers. "I need— I _want_ —"

"I'll make breakfast," Loki says casually, his voice cold, and he begins to walk away. Steve doesn't stop him.

"Commander Fury," Loki says, buttoning up his shirt as the older man walks into the room, and Loki makes his way toward him. Initially, he expects Fury to snap at him as he has done before, but he does not: Fury meets Loki's gaze evenly. "Everybody is as yet abed – we were all drinking last night. Pray, will you stay for breakfast?"

"This what you are now?" he asks, lowly. "Domestic, non-threatening?"

"I can threaten you if you would prefer," Loki offers, his tone slightly crisp. To his surprise, Fury _smiles_. It isn't a friendly thing, more of a show of teeth, but… It is a smile. "Coffee?" Loki asks.

"Sure," Fury murmurs, and he sits down at the kitchen counter. Loki pours him a mug, pushing it over the marble counter, and he watches Fury for a long few moments – the man looks tired. "You've been here nearly two months, and you ain't killed anyone, huh?"

"It's a record," Loki says, unenthusiastically, and begins to chop peppers and mushrooms to put onto fry.

"It's good," Fury says. Loki stops, the knife in his hand, and he glances up at Fury, but Fury's focus is on his steaming coffee. "Look, kid. I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and I _know_ you weigh a Hell of a lot more than you look, but…" Fury trails off, his single eye staring into space. "There's something coming. We're gonna need all the allies we can get."

"Steven trusts you so implicitly," Loki murmurs. "Therefore, so must I. He believes you are a good man."

"Nah, he doesn't," Fury murmurs. "He believes I'm trying to do the right thing – what has to be done. The two ain't the same." Those words settle within Loki, heavy within his chest, upon his lungs.

"Very well," Loki says. "I'll set you a place at the table, nonetheless."


	11. Brought To Justice 11

"You told him _what_?" Steve asks, dragging on jeans and a shirt, and Loki continues to meticulously comb his hair up into a bun, leaning forward to examine his reflection in Steve's mirror. He seems completely at home in Steve's bedroom, despite having _walked out_ forty minutes ago, and at the moment, Steve isn't going to settle on that issue. After all, it's _his_ fault, for saying…

"I told him you trusted him implicitly."

"That's— What did I tell you about lying!?" Steve growls, sitting down on the bed to pull on socks, and Loki chuckles, putting his glasses onto his nose.

"I believe you've told me I _may_ lie, so long as it isn't to you," he says. "Or are you belaying that instruction now?" Steve groans in frustration, and Loki smiles, turning to examine him. Loki wears a green suit, cinched at the waist and tight about his shoulders, his hands loosely thumbed into his pockets. He wears no tie, but there is a silver scarf around his neck. "Regardless… Steven, you _do_ trust him. This business with the weaponry— Surely you understand the choices he made. He is a commander, is he not? Looking at the bigger picture, as it were. You ought show some gratitude."

" _Gratitude?_ " Steve repeats, and he chuckles, standing up from the bed as he finishes lacing his shoes. "Take me through that one. What, 'cause he could have left me in the ice?"

"You wouldn't be a team, were it not for him," Loki murmurs. Steve sighs, reaching up and putting his hands through his hair. "You were defensive, in the beginning, believing he wished to use me as a weapon. I would not be the reason you cut off this alliance." Loki passes Steve's comb to him, and Steve runs it hurriedly through his hair.

"You like him?"

"I believe _you_ like him." Steve hears himself scoff, and then he shakes his head, gesturing for Loki to follow him out of the bedroom. Nearly everyone is sitting down to dinner, now, in various shades of pale, sickly green, and even Thor looks a little green about the gills, leaning against the kitchen counter and guzzling orange juice like it's gonna save his life.

"What, no hangover cure this time?" Tony grumbles from the table, and Loki chuckles, waving his hand easily. At each of the places, a small shot glass filled with a thimbleful of green liquid appears, and Tony exhales.

"What is it?" Sam asks, and Tony knocks his back. Sam watches everyone else at the table do the same, then takes the sip of potion down before _groaning_. "Oh, that is great."

"Magic comes with its benefits, Samuel," Loki says, passing his brother a glass, and Thor throws his arms around Loki, taking the potion with one of his arms tightly wrapped around his brother's neck. Steve doesn't miss the warmth of Loki's smile. "We must go, Thor."

"Can I talk to you a second, your highness?" Fury says, neatly standing from the table, and Steve glances between Loki, Thor and Fury, but it only takes a moment.

"Of course," Thor says, "I—"

"Nah. Not you," Fury murmurs. Thor frowns deeply, furrowing his brow, but then he glances to Loki, and Loki communicates his assent to him with a silent glance.

"Thor, why don't you head downstairs? I'll meet you momentarily." Thor gives an easy nod, and now that his hangover has been brushed away, he walks confidently toward the door, throwing one look over his shoulder. "Steven, may we use your office? Perhaps you might accompany us." Fury nods, and Steve leads the way down the corridor, stepping into the office Pepper had laid out for him once they'd set up in Avengers Tower.

It's… Weird. Having an office. Steve's thought about putting up photos in here, putting bookshelves against the walls instead of having it be so bare, but… Nah. He watches as Loki carefully pushes the door shut, and then looks to Fury. There isn't fear in Loki's eyes, but there's something else: a deep-set caution, an uncertainty.

"So," Fury says, quietly. "How in control were you when the Chitauri invaded Earth?" Loki laughs, the sound low and bitter. Steve can see a flash of fear in his eyes, and he frowns, trying to wrap his head around what would give Loki that desperate, furious, _terrified_ look, what would make him look like he's been so backed into a corner.

"I see, I see. An excellent machination, Commander Fury. You might have asked me this as I cooked breakfast, but of course, you wished to wait until Steven was there too, to ensure my honesty." Loki adjusts the set of his scarf around his neck, and then reaches for the door handle. "Pardon me, I have a da—"

"Answer the question, Loki," Steve says quietly. Loki freezes, his hand touching the metal of the door, and when he turns to look at Steve, his expression is stony.

"Is that an order?" Loki asks.

"Yes." Loki inhales, setting his hands in his pockets, and then he turns to face Fury. Does he remind Loki, Steve wonders, of Odin? Both of them can be so calculating, and then there's the eyepatch, but… Loki would probably be offended on _Nick's_ behalf if Steve implied a similarity.

"I was given the choice between leading the Chitauri to Asgard, or to Midgard. I chose Midgard."

"Tell him the whole truth," Steve murmurs. Loki stiffens, his eyes widening, and Steve frowns, but Loki swallows, then.

"Very well. I fell from the Bifrost, through a great many pocket dimensions, through space – I was falling for some time. A chunk of the Bifrost had hit me hard in the side of the neck, damaging my spinal column, and I was paralysed, left with my higher brain function intact, but quite unable to move. I landed upon a dismal, hot planet with a sun that bubbled and burned at my flesh, and I was there for many days. Close to death, I… You might call it astral projection. I wished to be at peace, far away from that ugly heap of dirt. As I have done before in times of struggle, I set my spirit adrift at the ends of the universe, where the universe eats slowly into the ether of unreality."

"And?" Fury presses, lowly.

"My feat of magic did not go unnoticed. He—" Loki trails off, closing his eyes for a second, as if thinking hard, and then he says, "I cannot remember his name, nor his face. I merely know snatches of his voice, for he has tampered with my recollections. He cut my magic off from me and set me amongst the Chitauri, forcing me to utilize the tool which I was sent for – the Tesseract. I was to use it to invade either Asgard or Midgard, and allow the Chitauri through, but I… I betrayed him." Steve stares at him, trying to take this in – someone had _made_ Loki do this? Sure, he'd known that Loki had had his magic cut off, that he'd been given a choice, but…

"You betrayed him," Fury says.

"As my magic was recalled to me, his power over me faltered. I intentionally organised a faulty invasion plan." Fury's eye narrows as he looks at Loki, but Loki does not flinch away from Fury's gaze, and he says softly, "I still invaded. Did what I might to protect myself. I do not pretend myself a victim."

"Guess you don't," Fury agrees, lowly. He puts his hand out, and Loki stares down at it, uncomprehending. "Shake the hand."

" _Why_?" Loki says, almost savagely.

"Loki," Steve says, and Loki takes Fury's hand in his own, shaking it. Fury takes his hand away then, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Loki for a long few moments, as if Loki is some sort of weird curiosity. "You can go." Loki is visibly relieved to go, and he shuts the door a little more heavily behind him than Steve had expected, but it's… Fine.

"I wanted to apologize," Steve says quietly. "I shouldn't have been so defensive, when Odin brought him back. I was making you out as something colder than you are." Fury arches his eyebrow at Steve, and Steve sighs, sitting down in the chair across from his desk, turning it around to face the sofa in the corner.

"Yeah," Fury agrees. "It's not something I ain't used to. That voice he mentioned… You didn't know about it?" There's something extra in Fury's face, some extra element Steve can't quite work out off his face, but that's the nature of Nick Fury, isn't it? The guy is always thinking a hundred moves ahead, always thinking up contingencies and how to make the most of a dark situation.

"You know how to play chess?" Steve asks. Fury stares at him, his single eye blinking once.

"Yeah," he says.

"Will you teach me?" Fury leans back on his heels, looking at Steve for a long few moments, and Steve wonders if he's going to take the olive branch as it is given, but then Fury nods his head.

"Sure. He—" Fury trails off, gesturing after Loki. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Steve says. "He's actually been in a real good mood the past few days, I… I don't know what that was about at all."

There is an echoing in the mind of Loki Bölson.

He has managed not to speak of _Him_ , that ancient and sonorous voice that had drawn him up from the dirt and wiped away the blood boiling from his open wounds, thus far. He has scarcely thought of him, and yet he thinks of what the priest had said to him on that ugly little comet, the way he had said _He_ would find Loki, regardless of where he went. And He wants Loki. Oh, Loki _knows_ He wants Loki, can feel him at the very edge of his mind, even now.

Why would Fury ask? Why would Steven insist he _answer_?

Loki thinks of _His_ voice, spreading over his every sense, his very soul, like a thick blanket weighted at its edges, playing at his very seiðr and holding it tightly in his hands. Loki's breathing is heavy as he rushes down the stairs, and he thinks of stark meteor beneath him, a tight hand about his neck—

"Loki!" Thor says. "Shall we—" Loki grabs Thor by the shoulder, and creates a dimensional transitway, imagining the two points of reality meeting one another as his magic reaches out, and there they stand in the midst of the rooftop restaurant. The dizziness pushes away the hand, the voice, the images.

The dizziness leaves Loki leaning over slightly, and Thor is _fussing_.

"Loki! Loki, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Loki says, slightly hoarsely. He oughtn't have performed the spell so swiftly, with so few calculations to ease the transition: he feels as if he is at sea, the concrete ground swimming beneath his unsteady feet, and his stomach is lurching. His head spins, and _spins_ , but the voice is cast away to the wind.

"Loki," says a voice behind him, and he turns. Stephen Strange does not wear his obscene little robes today: he wears a suit of deepest scarlet, and the cut of it is positively _audacious_ , but despite himself, looking at it, Loki cannot help but grin. "I might tutor you in magic, if you wish."

"Oh, _tutelage_ from the great and _powerful_ Sorcerer Supreme!" Loki says, his swoon scathingly over-acted, as he lays the back of his hand over his unsteady head, "I could only _be_ so lucky, Doctor!" Stephen presses his lips together, visibly irritated, and Loki smiles, reaching for his hand. Strange lets him, entwining their fingers and pulling Loki closer – unsteady as he is, Loki cannot help but let himself be drawn in, and he stands chest-to-chest with the other man, his lips quirking into a little grin, their mouths nearly touching.

" _Do_ be careful, Loki," Stephen advises, quietly, and Loki holds up his hand, his expression one of bland challenge. Between his index and middle finger rests Stephen's wallet, and shock and confusion pass over Stephen's face all at once as he snatches the pilfered item back, leaving Loki smirking as he saunters away in search of a table.

"Sorcerer Supreme my _arse_ ," he mutters to Thor, and Thor laughs: Loki hears the _clap_ of Thor's mighty hand against Stephen's back, followed by the soft wheeze of Stephen's lungs as the air is knocked out of them.

"My brother teases you!" Thor says, cheerily. "You two must truly be well-matched. I am Thor, Son of Odin."

"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," Stephen replies, and Loki slides into a table, settling back against the chair. Stephen is watching him as he comes to seat himself, and he sits himself across from Loki, immediately hooking one of Loki's ankles with his own foot beneath the table, and Loki is surprised by the odd electricity that passes between the two of them, the way that this feels so… Natural. But such is the way between magic users – magic will so often, fit itself into the gaps and cracks between two individuals, allow themselves to predict one another's likes and dislikes. For a moment, Loki recalls a domestic moment from long, long ago: he and Sigyn back to back in the centre of their library, organising their books by subject, slipping them onto their shelves, and their magicks had come together in the air like swirls of red wine and white.

"Loki?" Thor says, in the tone of someone saying it for the second or third time, and Loki turns to look at him. He feels slow, and slightly disconnected from that which occurs around him, as if he is submerged in a tank of water. Thor's mouth is moving, but Loki can't really hear the words as they come from his mouth, and he realises that his lungs are not moving. He stares down at his first sternum, uncomprehending, but he is not breathing: his chest is still, his lungs working not, his diaphragm abruptly lazy. It is not the end of the world – Loki has gone weeks without a breath before, and he needs only take the seiðr into himself…

Where is his seiðr?

Loki tilts his head to the side, and the whole world tilts with him: he sits alone on a meteor, the blackness of space passing him by. He feels his heart grow cold in his chest, and he scrambles up from the chair, stepping hurriedly back from the centre of the dark stone, and he desperately grabs for his seiðr, any magic he can get, tries to feel its heat in his palms, but it comes not, it comes _not!_

And—

Oh no. Oh, _no_ , no, no: His hand is on Loki's neck, _His hand_ , gripping, gripping, and Loki feels himself sobbing as his magic comes back to him at once, burning through his neck to draw that hand away and doing _naught_ —

" _Loki!"_ a voice comes harshly before him, the voice laced not with old power, but instead with magic, new magic, and Loki heaves in a gasping little breath, shaking in his place. Stephen's hands are clapped tightly against Loki's shoulders, holding him still, and Loki's chest and throat _ache_ as he heaves in breath after breath. His blood rushes still in his ears, but now he can see and hear all – smell the smoke and sear of flesh on the air, see Thor holding his burned arm to his chest but still looking at Loki with concern in his eyes, and Loki feels the overexertion of magic in his fingers, feels them burn. "It's alright. It's alright, you're safe: here, here—"

And then they are gone from the restaurant, and Loki is seated in Stephen's medical office, his back against the wall, and Stephen is healing Thor's bloody, open wounds.

 _Steven_ , Loki thinks, pushing the thought out into the ether: he feels confusion, and alarm. _It is I, Steven: it is Loki. Pray, come to Greenwich. Tout de suite_.

 _What happened?_ The thought comes weakly, awkwardly: undoubtedly, Steven said the words aloud. Loki answers him not, and severs the connection, laying his head in his hands, feeling his cold cheeks against his cold palms, and he wishes more than ever, _desperately_ , that Thor had never broken into his conversation with Odin, wishes that he were safely and quietly deposited in the vaults of Asgard.

Stephen leans back, examining Thor's arm and gesturing for him to move each of his fingers, but it seems to be fine, now. "What happened to him?" Thor asks, quietly. Strange comes closer, reaching out, and his hand touches Loki's shoulder again, his touch featherlight.

"He had an anxiety attack," Stephen answers, and he very slowly drops into a crouch before Loki, his deep, darkly brown eyes meeting Loki's through the cage of his fingers. His hands move very slowly, giving Loki all the time in the world to move away, until they touch Loki's hands, and Loki lets him, lets him draw them away from Loki's face and into his lap. "You weren't quite with us for a few moments there. You hallucinated."

"Yes," Loki whispers. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"This isn't something to apologize for," Stephen interrupts, his tone gentle and quiet. It unnerves Loki, to be treated like this, fragile and precious, when he has just flayed the flesh from his brother's _bones_ in his panic. "Thor, Son of Odin, Steven Rogers is at the door. Would you go and let him in?" Loki sees Thor hesitate, his healed arm quite well, but then he nods, and he leaves the room. "I can refer you to a psychiatrist," Strange offers, quietly.

"No," Loki says.

"A therapist?"

"No."

"A counsellor?"

"No." Stephen leans back on his heels, sighs quietly, then seems to assent.

"Very well. We should eat in. Get takeout." Loki stares at him, his lips pressed loosely together. "If you still have an appetite?"

"I hurt him," Loki says. "I could have—" Stephen's hand grips Loki's a little tighter, and he slowly shakes his head.

"You couldn't have. Even had the episode lasted longer, I would have protected everyone from any further magical outburst, and it isn't your fault. Trauma, am I correct? A flashback?" _Flashback_ echoes through the Allspeak, and Loki feels himself blink a few times.

"Yes."

"Not feeling very talkative, are you?" Stephen asks, and his thumb is rubbing in slow, easy circles against the back of Loki's hand, brushing easily back and forth over the skin. The sensation is hypnotising, and calming, and Loki slowly shakes his head.

"What happened?" Steven asks, rushing into the room, and Stephen draws his warm hand away from Loki's own, leaving his palms bereft as Stephen stands to face the other man. Steve is flushed in the cheeks, and Loki wonders if he had run _here_ , all the way to Greenwich, until he sees that Wanda is behind him, standing in the doorway.

"Loki had anxiety attack, which included a flashback. Thor attempted to put his hand on Loki's neck to calm him—" Loki feels himself shudder, his hand clapping over his mouth to keep himself from vomiting, "And that triggered a magical outburst. He's alright, now, but he needs rest."

"An _anxiety_ attack?" Steven repeats, and he moves past the doctor into the room, reaching for Loki and pushing up his face by his chin. "This about what Fury asked? You hadn't mentioned that before, and all of a sudden—"

"I've been trying not to think about it," Loki mutters. "I had been doing rather well until now." The ruddy flush of exertion is bleeding slowly away from Steven's face, now, replaced with a pallidity that would better suit his younger, weaker form, and Loki swallows.

"Loki, you can't just not think about stuff like this, and lock it away." Steven's voice is all but pleading, and it makes Loki feel sick inside, makes him bubble up with the desperate desire to run until he hits the end of the universe. "You need to work _through_ it."

"You have no idea what I need," Loki replies, his tone dripping with venom, and he drags his chin roughly from Steven's hand. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

"We're gonna talk about this. Tonight," Steven says. "But first…" he trails off, glancing to Stephen and Thor alike. Loki can feel the weight of his brother's gaze upon him, feels shame fill his veins like ichor, and he bows his head, staring at the tile of the floor instead of meeting anybody's gaze. "Loki," Steven whispers. "It's okay. It's not your fault. Come back to the Tower by seven o'clock, okay?" Loki nods.

"Brother," Thor says. "Ought I stay, or ought I go?" Loki hesitates, his gaze turning to settle on his brother's face, but understanding is already plain in Thor's eyes, in the slightly downturned shape of his smile, in his dimples. "That's okay. I shall see you tomorrow, before I return to Asgard: we shall say our farewells then."

"Thank you," Loki murmurs. And Thor smiles at him, _smiles_ , as if Loki isn't the worst monster to walk this awful Earth, smiles as if they are brothers, and as if Loki has never done a thing wrong in his life. And then Thor, Steven and Wanda are each gone, and Loki remains seated, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Stephen's red-clad thighs.

"Let's go sit down," Stephen suggests, quietly, and he puts out one of his hands for Loki to take: immediately, they are in a comfortable, tastefully decorated sitting room. Magical artefacts line the shelves upon the walls, and Loki can feel the vague thrum of some of them as they reach toward him with their latent magic, but at a quiet _tut_ from Stephen, they fall in line, and Loki feels a ghost of a smile come to his face. Stephen pushes him down into a chair, slowly, and Loki lets him, relishes the feeling of _not_ being in control.

"I'm beginning to think you're engineering this," Loki says softly.

"You believe I'm engineering _your_ response to your trauma?" Stephen asks, offence coming to his features as he begins to scrawl upon a conjured parchment.

"No," Loki says. "Engineering an avoidance of our coupling. First, Steven objected; then, the party distracted me, and now—" Stephen's offence bleeds away, replaced by macabre humour, and his laugh is low and dark. The pen comes to a stop on the page, and Loki watches it hover on the air as it is slotted into an envelope and sent off to some restaurant – Stephen struggles with technology, Loki has noticed. His polished, clean magic is nuanced, but it finds itself at odds with computers and the like, and it almost _amuses_ him to see somewhere where his powers reach not.

"Quite," he agrees. "Well then, I own up to it. I'm very traditional, you see: I like to save sex for the third date."

"I see," Loki says, his own tone as playful as he can get it, although he is aware even as he speaks that his voice is shaking. He feels trapped in his very own bones, bound in the weakness of his own flesh, and when Strange leans back upon the sofa, opening his arms, Loki is weak. Loki is so, _so_ weak, lets himself press his body against Stephen's, lets himself become a liquid weight in the lap of the Sorcerer Supreme, and he hates himself for his weakness, the pathetic nature of it all, and yet—

Stephen is warm beneath him. His body, unwavering in its heat and its solidity, is a comforting truth in the midst of a world threatening unreality; his breaths, even and slow, touch over Loki's hair like the brush of a spring wind; his heartbeat, a pattering rhythm so fast, so fast, beneath the hand Loki has pressed to his chest, and even the thrum of Stephen's magic, heavy in his veins: these things ground him, and soothe his ailing mind. Curious, that Loki, ever a man of solitude and isolation ( _Loneliness, you mean,_ says a traitorous voice in the back of his head) should be so entranced, so easily swayed, by the simplicity of touch. He has gone without touch for so, so long.

"I'm so heavy," Loki murmurs, "I must be crushing your lap beneath me."

"It's worth it," Stephen replies, easily, so easily it is almost as if he hadn't _thought_ before he said it. Stephen Strange smells of copper and chromium, vanilla and nutmeg, and there remains a lingering odour of disinfectant from his hands – he is polished in almost every way, and Loki wishes he could bleed into his very flesh, and fade away. "The energy that comes off you, the _power_ … It's so different to anything I've known before." There is a slightly hungry note to Stephen's tone, a quiet desire, and Loki feels himself smile as he leans into the crook of his neck, his breath warm against the other man's neck, his lips brushing the pulse point: Stephen sighs, softly.

"You would possess me as Rogers did, if you had the chance," Loki murmurs, amused. "I see you lack _his_ concerns with liberty." And _Steven…_ Loki wishes not to think of him, wishes not to think of the _discussion_ they are to have later tonight – he wishes to be here, pressed against a man that will not ask hard questions of him, and lacks the power to force the truth from his mouth.

"I don't believe I said that," Stephen says softly, but no further denial comes, and Loki tastes truth and lies alike, and he chuckles at the taste of _deception_ that lingers on his sensitive tongue. This is a better distraction than the dizziness of a sudden spell, much, _much_ better.

"Do not mistake my commentary for offence," Loki murmurs against Stephen's jaw, his lips dragging over the lines of facial hair, the slight stubble to be found between them. "I am not of Midgard. The desire to _possess_ another is not one I feel, but neither does it fill me with fear or disgust. You wish to possess me? Ha. You cannot. But you _want_ to?" Loki feels the heart of Stephen Strange beat the slightest bit harder in his chest, and he smiles. "Why should that unnerve me? You lack the power to put me to indentures, and if you _possessed_ it…" Loki's fingers draw slowly over Stephen's chest, coming up to his neck, touching the hollow of it with his thumb, feeling the dusky brown skin beneath his touch. "I might embrace it. I am not naturally servile, but power so calls to power. Wouldn't you say?"

"It seems to me you enjoy the fantasy of being possessed more than the truth," Stephen murmurs, and Loki laughs.

"Wouldn't you?" Stephen turns to look at him, and then his lips are on Loki's and Loki is _melting_ , he is dying, he is coming quite to pieces: Stephen's tongue is swift and dexterous, his lips so hot against Loki's own, and Loki cannot help the way he gasps into Stephen's mouth, cannot help but whimper when Stephen's teeth drag over his lower lip, and—

The doorbell rings. It sounds through the great house in Greenwich, and Loki draws slowly away, feeling the ghost of Stephen's heat upon his mouth, and he sees the loss in Stephen's eyes as he whispers, "That'll be the food. I'll get it," and slowly leaves the room. He feels Stephen's hungry gaze upon his back as he goes, and it makes him feel _warm_.

Wanda is sitting with her hands across her face, her expression faraway, and Steve watches her for a long few moments. He doesn't need to be a genius to know what she's thinking about, to know precisely what is replaying again and again in her mind: the House of M, and Loki losing control during a hallucination.

( _"It was nothing," Thor had said. "Merely a glancing burst of his seiðr."_

 _"How much were you burned?" Thor had hesitated._

 _"To the bone." Steve had brought in a breath, hissing through his teeth – 'cause that, that's dangerous, that's unpredictable. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.)_

"It's gonna be fine," Steve murmurs, and he reaches out to touch her, but she moves away from him. She doesn't like to be touched by men, he's noticed, despite being so free with Nat and Pepper, and—

And with Loki.

Steve glances at the clock as he draws his hand away, which reads **18:55**. He's cutting it damned thin. _Damned_ thin. Beginning to pace, he breathes slowly in, and then exhales, but he knows that it was important to give Loki some time to decompress, to give him some time to relax with Strange, and it's fine, it's fine.

And then he sees Loki in the doorway, his hair mussed, a bite mark visible on his collar for a scant second before it is covered over with an illusion, and Steve feels like punching through a wall. He is looking at Steve as if the two of them are about to spar, his eyes full of fire, and then his gaze turns to Wanda, and it softens.

"Wanda," he murmurs quietly, and immediately he is before her, one of his hands drawing through her hair, the other on her cheek, and she lets him. Of course she does. "Worry not. I shall be quite alright."

"You did warn me," she murmurs. "That it wasn't just me."

"I will deal with the matter," Loki whispers, and he leans, brushes his thin lips over the top of her hair, and Steve watches the two of them, silent, his jaw clenched. "You should to bed. It is as yet early, but you should at least lie down, even if sleep takes you not." And Loki watches her go as if he is watching a part of himself go, and then he murmurs, "We should to your office, I suppose."

"I guess," Steve agrees, lowly, and some minutes later, they are alone in Steve's office, Loki sat upon the small couch to the side of the room, and Steve in a chair across from him. Loki is carefully examining his nails instead of looking at Steve, and Steve says, quietly, "I take back the thing about orders. I tell you to do something, you do it."

"Very well," Loki murmurs. He doesn't seem surprised. In fact, the way his expression changes – it's like he was expecting this from the beginning. Steve feels the bitterness in his mouth, feels the _guilt_ , but he can't afford to have Loki squirreling out from under him right now, can't afford to have him lie.

"Take the illusion off," Steve says. Loki glances up from his nails, frowning at him, and Steve says, "You intentionally left the marks out so that I'd see them and get jealous as you walked in, Loki. No point getting shy now." That makes Loki's expression change, and it's a mix of irritation at being seen through, but also… Something else. The illusion fades away, and there is a bite stark and red on the white column of Loki's neck, each tooth visible and distinct from the others; at the side of his jaw, two sucked-in bruises are plainly apparent, and Steve is distinctly aware that Strange must have used _some_ magic to manage that kind of damage to the capillaries underneath Loki's alien-thick skin. "That anxiety attack. Tell me how it went."

"I had put the voice – _Him_ – from my mind. It was as I said to you and Fury this morning: that voice was my saviour, set me amongst the Chitauri, but…" Loki trails off, thinking a moment, and then says, "His influence is not entirely gone from me. I feel Him still, at the very edges of my mind. Nameless, faceless, and yet, that voice, still encapsulating, still hypnotising. He hurt me. Torture is such a simple word, bearing such lacking connotation – it was worse than that. I have not the words to describe it, but some things were constant throughout: His voice in my ear, His hand at my neck…" Loki's fingers trace the bitemark, press down against it, and Steve sees, now, what he's done – replaced one pain with another. "I attempted to stop my train off thought by performing a complicated feat of magic that left me dizzy, and for a moment, it worked, but my… _Anxiety_ took over." He says the word like it's completely foreign to him, as if it's a word for _aliens_ instead of himself, but Steve doesn't interrupt him. "I felt as if I was on the meteor He would once torture me upon, and then I scrambled back – attempting to comfort me, Thor touched his hand upon my neck, as has often calmed me, but I imagined it was _His_ hand, and I— Lashed out. Stephen brought me to reality once more."

"So the hand on the neck…" Steve trails off, quietly. "How about you tell me what happened with Strange?"

"We ordered Chinese," Loki murmurs, narrowing his eyes at Steve, but Steve remains unflinching. "Then…"

"Then," Steve repeats.

"Then kissed."

"That all?"

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "We kissed one another, and he bit me, marked me some… We— Must I speak of this?"

"Yes," Steve says resolutely, and Loki presses his lips together, thinning them.

"We ground against one another. Still clothed."

"Did you come?" Steve asks. Loki's eyes narrow even further.

"Yes," he says, finally.

"You know why I'm asking these questions?" Steve asks, quietly. "You know why?"

"Because you're _inane_?"

"Because these questions are a lot less uncomfortable than the ones I'm about to ask," Steve murmurs, quietly. "And I'm _sorry_ , Loki, but I have to ask them. I have to make sure that you're safe to put back in the field, and that you're safe to have around other people. I need to make sure you're okay."

"I would rather have this conversation with Stark, if it's all the same to you," Loki murmurs quietly. His skin is becoming swiftly pallid and pale, and Steve wonders how much he's really scared of _Steve_ , and how much he's scared about having to talk about something ugly, and horrible.

"Nah, not this time, Loki," Steve murmurs. "You can talk to me, or I can send you to a psychologist."

"I don't want to see a psychologist," Loki says.

"I'll go if you go," Steve offers, and Loki, very slowly, brings his knees up onto the sofa, drawing them to his chest. Steve considers getting closer to him, setting his arm on Loki's shoulder, even just leaving a little space between them so that there's _someone_ right next to him, but he looks so small like this, so vulnerable.

"Really?" Loki asks, quietly.

"Really," Steve promises. And then, slowly – ever so slowly – Loki nods his head. Steve nods, slowly. "Loki… You're my responsibility. I can't let you be… Dangerous." And God, he feels guilty, _God_ he does, but Loki doesn't seem upset any more. If anything, the guy seems… Gratified.

"I know," Loki whispers. "I don't want you to." He stands up, stepping closer, and Steve stares at him, cautious, as Loki draws more into his space, until Steve is forced to look up into his eyes, into that red, ragged mark on his neck. "You told me to come closer. Before."

"That was wrong of me," Steve says. "I shouldn't have done it. I was tired, and jealous, and it was wrong."

"You keep saying words like that," Loki murmurs. "Wrong. Right. Good. Bad. You know, if Strange had me under his palm, he would use me to the fullest. And do you know something, Steven?" And then Loki is in his lap, leaning directly into Steve's space, his hand on Steve's cheek, his expression thick with something heavy, and _desperate_. "I think you would too, if your morals would allow."

"Shame they don't," Steve says, resolutely, and Loki chuckles, quietly. When he speaks, it is with Steve's voice instead of his own, soft and weak:

" _Come here. I need— I want—_ "

"I told you," Steve says, "That was wrong of me, and I—" But Loki's mouth is harsh against his own, and Steve gasps against his cold tongue, his freezing lips, and despite himself, he doesn't remain frozen this time: he kisses Loki right back, tangles his hands in Loki's hair and bites his lip, attacks Loki's mouth until Loki is whimpering under the grip of Steve's hands, and the sound is pathetic, _desperate_ , and it makes Steve hot all over. "Loki, we—"

"Don't say _can't_ ," Loki says. "That's an order." Steve sighs, pressing his forehead to Loki's, and he feels the coolness of Loki's flesh against his own, feels the slow – _so slow –_ beat of Loki's heart in his chest. "Steven, I _want_ to be hurt. Do you understand? It is an ugly, broken part of me, a set of jagged shards, but I desperately, _deeply_ desire it – and you want to. You _want_ to. So why not just—"

"Because you can't say no."

"So tell me I can say no."

"It isn't that simple, Loki, I—"

"Steven," Loki interrupts him, his voice emphatic, and his hands cup tightly against Steve's cheeks, his fingers pressing into the skin there. "Let me tell you something. In all my thousands of years, do you know how many times I have encountered something that was _entirely_ simple? Never. Never! Let it be complicated. Let it be hard. Let it be ugly, even. None of that precludes it being _good_ , as you might call it. None of that precludes it being right."

Right now… Right now, Steve could do a lot of things. Drag Loki by the hair into his bedroom, throw him against the wall, punish him for every single terrible thing he's ever done; let Loki bite him, and needle him, and scratch and ride and hurt him as much as he _needs_ to, and yet—

"Did you have a good time with Strange tonight?" Steve asks. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "But I would freely abandon him if you'll just—"

"Let me make you a deal," Steve says quietly, and he looks at his hands, which are on the angles of Loki's hips, fitting into the jut of bone like Loki's waist was _made_ for this, like Steve's hands were always meant to be there. "Give it another few months. Let it cool off. Let's _both_ see a damned doctor."

"Very well," Loki murmurs, turning his head away, and Steve reaches up, touching Loki's chin, feeling the shape of his jaw beneath his palm. He does his best to ignore the lovebite there.

"Loki," Steve murmurs. "That voice. His voice. I don't want you to ever listen to it. Do you hear me? Does your magic hear me? You don't _ever_ have to do a thing that voice tells you, not ever. That voice will _never_ control you again." Loki exhales, and it's like he's relieved in a way he never expected, his hands clutching at Steve's shoulders.

"Let me kiss you again," he murmurs. "Just once."

"Just once," Steve agrees, and Loki's mouth is on his again, their mouths surging against one another, and he knows it's already gone on too long, that it's already been _too much_ , but Loki's hands are fiddling desperately with the buttons on the collar of Steve's shirt, and Steve stands, feeling the heft of Loki's weight against his own as Loki wraps his legs tightly around Steve's waist, his heels digging into the meat of Steve's thighs, and Steve drops him against the door, hearing the _gasp_ it punches out of Loki as Loki drags off his dumb scarf, wriggles out of his suit jacket and his skinny, tight-fitting shirt, and Steve dips his head, dragging his tongue over the pink, sensitive nub of Loki's left nipple, feeling the way he gasps and arches up into the touch.

They shouldn't. They shouldn't, they shouldn't, but Loki becomes so frustrated with Steve's stubborn shirt that it turns to ash on his chest, and Steve cannot help the laugh that comes out against Loki's chest as Loki's hands move greedily for Steve's pectorals, thumbing over _his_ nipples, feeling the shape of his shoulders, his neck.

"The desk," Loki whispers, and Steve is helpless to disobey. Loki is scrambling to the ground, and his clothes vanish with nary a _thought_ , and it is obvious it means little to him to throw Steve's bare papers onto the ground, to bend over the desk and spread his legs as wide as they will go, and God, _God_.

"We can't—"

"Disobeying orders?" Loki says, turning his head, and his eyes are full with a fierceness that makes Steve shudder, makes him fully aware, for a second, that Loki is a _god_. "Really, soldier?"

"Arch your back," Steve says, and Loki does like it's a reflex and _God_ , God, God—

Steve unbuttons his fly, and he comes forward, worshipping the line of Loki's arched spine with his mouth open, his fingers dragging over Loki's pale, pale skin, and Christ, if Strange is going to leave marks, so is Steve: he sucks a bruise on the back of Loki's neck, relishing the way he cries out and thrusts back into the touch, and this is wrong, this wrong, he _can't_ —

He does.


	12. Brought To Justice 12

**June 17th, 2012  
12:16AM**

Loki is breathing shallowly, his head back against the wall, his aching thighs spread apart, his hair a muss about his head, his flesh dreadfully cool. Inside him, _burning_ within him, he feels the evidence Steven had left behind him, feels the heat that washes the inside of his walls, at odds with Loki's own natural temperature, and the sensation is… Crude, and odd, and _delicious_. How many hours have they been against each other, before they have finally parted?

"I will say one thing," he says softly, with an air of finality, "for that serum of yours. I imagine you lacked such stamina when once you were young." Steven, who is breathing equally heavily beside him and is _drenched_ in sweat, his heavy cock hanging soft between his legs, still glistening from Loki's cunt, nods his head. The wetness isn't the only mark, though – Loki has positively ruined Steven's body, marks all over his back, his chest, even over his arse and thighs… So much for not _harming_ anybody.

"Yeah," he says. "You're right there." Steven breathes in, slowly, and then he reaches out, dragging his fingers over Loki's belly, his fingers touching against the thick liquid clinging to his bare belly, and Loki sighs, softly. Steven's hand is warm against him, gloriously so, and Loki basks beneath it, as he might in sunlight. Isn't that what Steven is, in a way?

"I imagine this will come as something of a surprise," Loki murmurs quietly. "To the others, I mean." Loki does not like the shadow that passes over Steven's face. He doesn't like it in the _least_.

"I…" Steven presses his lips together. "Probably best we don't tell anybody." Loki frowns, feeling his brows furrow, his lips press tightly together. Very well. _Very well_. Staring down between his thighs, Loki looks at the way he is open, soaked through, at the wetness that clings to his skin, and then he stands, stretching, and he relishes the ache that plays in his muscles, for the pain reminds him of just how _stupid_ he is. "Where're you going?"

"To bathe," Loki murmurs, running his hand through his hair and pulling out the hair tie tangled amongst the messy locks. A droplet of something thick and heavy runs down the side of his leg, _hot_ against his skin, and Loki shivers. "I must soothe these bruises away."

"How come?" Steven asks, looking at him lazily, still content in his haze of after-pleasure. Loki feels his fists clench at his sides, but he keeps his tone diplomatic.

"Well, it's a third date tomorrow: I think it would rather ruin the mood if I came with another man's bite marks on my back." Steven stares at him, his lips parting, and Loki _smiles_ , savagely, before moving to confirm, "A few months to cool off, you said?" The realisation comes to Steven's face all at once, and Loki stares down at him, resolutely.

Steven's red cheeks pale slightly. "That's not… I didn't mean to—" Loki watches him, expectantly, his head tilting to the side, but Steven trails off, saying nothing more.

"Oh, I think you meant to," he murmurs. "I can feel you in my _core."_

 _"_ Loki, we _can't_ tell the others – they're going to misconstrue it, they're going to—"

"Oh, I'm sure you are right, Steven. And thus, we have all the more reason for me to continue my dalliance with Stephen Strange: fewer suspicions that way." Loki focuses, carefully, and Steven's office fades away from beneath him, instead leaving him in the midst of Loki's bathroom, where water is already flowing swiftly into the black marble bath. The blood rushes heady in his ears, but this is a difficult, tricky piece of magic, and…

Maybe he _will_ ask Stephen's help. Certainly, it would be a way to engender a further bond between them, would it not?

The water that comes from the taps is hot, as hot as Thor would take his baths, but Loki relishes the idea of the _purification_ , and when he slides into the water he hisses at the way that it feels upon his skin, warming him on every side. He is sensitive between his legs, but it matters not: he scrubs at the sides of his thighs and soothes away the clinging wetness that clings to his cool skin, feeling it come away clean.

The bedroom door opens and closes, and when Steven enters Loki's bathroom, Loki ignores him soundly, continuing to roughly sponge away Steven's sweat where it clings to his skin, his come, his _essence_. Loki feels _filthy_. Steven stares down at him, his hands at his sides.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," Steven says.

"You didn't," Loki says archly. "I don't have any, do I? I am merely _Loki_ , the pet, the slave, of the Avengers." He scrubs at the skin a little bit harder, so that it swiftly turns red beneath the sudden movement of the sponge, and Steven's hand touches over Loki's, gentle, preventing him from moving his hand any further.

"Let me do that," he says quietly. Loki's hand goes limp, and Steve takes the sponge from him, sliding into the bath and settling himself behind Loki: if the heat of the water is purifying, it is at odds with the sheer _corruption_ of Steven's warm flesh against his own, the sponge moving slowly and gently over the pale expanse of Loki's back, scrubbing in easy circles. "Nobody would believe I _wasn't_ taking advantage of you if they knew about this."

"And yet," Loki says mildly, "Without such scrutiny, surely it would only be easy for you to choose to take advantage of me, at a later date?" For a long few moments, the sponge ceases its ministrations against the back of Loki's neck, and Steven is very quiet. As he scrubs the awful residues from Loki's body, which are growing uncomfortably cool and sticky against his flesh, they vanish from the water – he hardly wishes to bathe in a soup of such things.

"You've been studying the US Constitution."

"No, but I _am_ a trained diplomat, and I understand the basic tenets of democracy, including _transparency."_ Steven sighs, and Loki feels his fingers trace the length of Loki's spine, making him sigh, softly. "There is no sense in trying to fool _me_ into believing you are the perfect patriot, Captain. I know when heroism is true, and when it is a performance."

"This isn't Asgard," Steven says quietly. "Being a hero isn't as simple as it seems at a glance."

"No," Loki agrees. "On Asgard also, that much is true." He sighs, and he turns, shifting the steaming water to the side and reaching up to touch the chiselled side of Steven's cheek, feeling its warmth beneath his cool palm. "Even a moral compass has four points, my friend. The others know that. But I will not submit myself to being a mere _pet_ behind closed doors. You make such fuss about your _consent_ , and your assurances that you mean not to use me as a toy, but long gone are the days where I will permit myself to be a distraction in the dark, a game in deserted corridors or behind closed doors, regardless of how much I might enjoy the action therein." And Strange! Strange… So few are his morals, and so focused is he upon protecting his _Earth_ , he seems to care so little about the morality he employs in his day-to-day: so easily would he take a slave, and so willingly might Loki permit it, were it easier than _this_.

It is freeing, in a way, to be so close to a body that is so unmagical in its nature. Steven's body is strong and hale and hearty, and yet as Loki passes his fingers over the other man's chest, feeling the muscle there, he wonders if Steven might be taught a spell or two. Has he the capability? Who is to say?

"We shall take a few months, then," Loki says, finally. "To _cool off_ , as you say. I believe that particular session resolved me of much of my tensions."

"What is it about Strange?" Steven asks, quietly. "I don't— I understand. You don't want to be a dirty little secret, and I respect that, and in a few months, when you're more established here, maybe it'll be different, but… Why him?"

"You had it right when you first accused me," Loki murmurs, casually. As he speaks, he allows his seiðr to seep into his flesh, seeking out the bruises and bites from Steven and Stephen alike, and he affects them to smooth themselves out, replaced by clean, new skin. He half expects Steven to request the same, but he doesn't: he wants the marks Loki left on him. Very well. "Magic calls to magic, and Strange is very powerful indeed. Merely being around him, my own magic sparks and sets itself alight beneath my skin – it is hypnotising, and deeply exciting. The man himself…" Loki trails off, then shrugs his shoulders. "He isn't a good man."

"Then why him?"

"Because he isn't a good man." Steven frowns at him, confusion showing in his cheeks, and Loki's fingers trace the lines of hard bone that make up his cheeks, his jaw. "Do not mistake my masochism for self-flagellation. I merely… I am unused to good people. I find myself on egg shells amongst the Avengers, knowing not what next I shall say to draw scorn in my direction, or ire upon me. With other beings of chaos, or those who care not for morality, I can be more free. More comfortable."

"I make you uncomfortable?" Steven asks, and Loki chuckles.

"Oh, yes," he murmurs. "Immeasurably so. But thus far, you have never punished me for something I have not understood. You have not acted unpredictably, nor disapproved without _explaining_ your disapproval. I learn with you: I feel I might become _better_. I don't believe you can appreciate precisely how wondrous a sensation that is, when one is as old as I am." Steven is staring at him, his blue eyes wide, and Loki feels his fast beating slowly and steadily beneath his touch, feels the warmth that spreads over his cheeks – a flush.

"God, you're beautiful," Steven whispers. "Like a fire, or a storm, or a black hole. Something huge and inescapable, unstoppable, and— You're like a force of nature." Loki swallows, suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of the other man's gaze upon him, but before he can turn his head away, Steven's hands touch the sides of Loki's jaws, keeping him still.

"I'm _yours_ ," Loki says, very quietly. "You keep denying it, keep couching it in terms of the bond, or magic, or in superficially sharing your power over me with Stark. But I _belong_ to you. Can you comprehend that?"

"Just because the magic says something—"

"Magic is _truth_ , Steven," Loki says, interrupting him. "It is the only truth. Inescapable, ephemeral: it is everything." _Even divinities believe in higher powers_ , he had told Samuel Wilson – is that how he ought explain this, to Steven? Would that make him understand? "Your denial does nothing to change the magic, and nothing again to change the truth." Discomfort shows plainly on Steven's face, and Loki sighs, softly. "You must accept it. One day."

"What, accept _owning_ somebody? I don't think so." Loki leans his hair back into the water, soaking it through with water, and then he sits up, beginning to comb it with a comb made of thick, carefully carved pearl. Steve is staring at it, perhaps to avoid looking at Loki's face. "Have you had that comb a long time?"

"For many, many years," Loki answers. The handle of the pearl comb is cool beneath his palm, and its teeth slide easily between the thick, wavy strands of his hair. "My daughter carved it of a great pearl Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr brought from the depths of the ocean, and bestowed upon Angrboða and I. The first gift any of them ever gave."

"I don't know how you stand it," Steven murmurs. His gaze is far away, and Loki becomes aware of the way their legs are intertwined in the wide bowl of the bath. "Before the war, I was with this girl. Peggy. She was… She was a firecracker, bright-eyed and beautiful, and she was a terror with a gun in her hand. Then I went into the ice."

"She died?"

"Nah," Steven says. "She's in a nursing home, now. In her nineties, had kids, a husband… She's had a long life, a happy one. But she had it without me. And I— I'm not angry at her, I was _dead_ , but… I just keep thinking about it. What it coulda been like, how we coulda been together. Kids. Mortgage. A dog, maybe. I feel like I lost something I never really had, and it tears me up inside, but you, you _really_ lost it all, twice over, but you just keep acting as if it's all gonna be fine. As if none of that ever happened to you."

"Why should I feel sorry for myself?" Loki asks, simply. "No one else ever has." Steve winces, and he runs a wet hand through his hair. When Loki offers him a tall, glass bottle of shampoo, he sniffs it before taking a little into his palm and beginning to wash his hair.

"I hate it when you say shit like that," he mutters, shaking his head. "You talk as if you never had _friends_ before you came to Midgard." Loki considers responding to this _particular_ nugget of dialogue, but then elects to ignore it, beginning to scrub the shampoo into his own, much longer hair, until his hair is a mess of soap and bubbles, heavy and scented with the Yto fruit – unpleasant to taste, far too sweet, but pleasant in fragrance. "Loki? You had friends once, right?"

"Of course," Loki says. "I was, for a long time, friends with Iðunn, who grew the orchard of fruits outside Asgard."

"For a long time?" Steven repeats, lowly. "What happened then?"

"I betrayed her," Loki says simply. "The giant Thjazi had me choose between my own death, and in kidnapping her, that he might marry her. My magic was bound into the promise, forcing me to make good upon it when I agreed to kidnap her, and so I did. I retrieved her, of course, and brought her home, but we never spoke much after that."

"Did you explain what happened?" Steven asks.

"Of course I did. The Council of the Gods even agreed I deserved no punishment, for I readily rescued her as soon as I was able, quite alone." Steven is giving him a pitying look, his gaze heavy upon Loki's face, and Loki sighs. "I suppose _you_ were surrounded by friends your entire life? Solitude is in my nature, Steven. Pity me not for that which I am."

"Solitude isn't in your nature," he mutters, dipping his head beneath the water to wash it off. When he arises, he shakes his head like a Labrador, and laughs when Loki kicks him in the thigh. " _Please_. You love people. You love telling stories, and entertaining, and you love talking to people, learning about them. You're just scared they'll hate you."

"Here we are at the psychologist's already, I see," Loki murmurs. "And as for you, Steven, will you ever think of the individuals alongside you as _individuals_ , as opposed to as souls to protect? Will you ever set aside that ugly little martyr complex for a mere _moment_ of peace?" They sit in the silence of the bathwater, looking at each other for a long few moments.

"This is kinda nice," Steven says.

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Sharing a bath. Talking. I get the feeling you're not really used to this kind of intimacy."

"And you are?"

"Nope. Not at all. Guess that's why it's so nice." Loki nods his head, very slowly. There is an urge within him, now the ache is being able to pass away from between his legs, replaced merely with a quiet heat, to climb upon Steven's lap, to ride him, to bite his neck and make him _realise_ that it does not matter which way the magic flows, for Loki can own Steven as _soundly_ as he is owned in return.

"I have a reservation with Stephen at _Daniel_ tonight," he says, quietly.

"You should cancel," Steve says.

"Very well," Loki replies. "Then we'll tell the Avengers at breakfast."

"I wish we could," Steven whispers. "But we _can't_."

"Then I have a reservation with Stephen at _Daniel_ tonight."

"Is this how it's always gonna be with you?" Steve asks, quietly, as if coming to a slow realisation. "Ultimatums?"

"It isn't an ultimatum," Loki says quietly. "That implies we will somehow part ways, and never be civil to one another again. As you offered before, we shall take several months to _cool off_ , and we might revisit this relation then. Perhaps in November. In the meantime, however, I shall pursue other connections. I might recommend you do the same."

"I hate that I want this," Steven murmurs. Loki feels pain stab through his chest, but before he can say anything more, Steven continues, "I wish this whole… _Thing_ wasn't there. Wish we could just go at this like two normal people, without you having to be scared I'm gonna turn around and order you to do something horrible. I wish you had as much control of this situation as I did."

"And if wishes were horses, the whole world would ride," Loki says, softly. Steven sighs, and then he reaches for the crystal bowl at the side of the bath, and then he fills it, pulling Loki closer to pour water over his soapy hair, rinsing away the shampoo.

"What do you talk about?"

"I don't believe asking these questions will make you feel better," Loki says softly, but then he feels Steven's gentle hand curling through his hair, and he feels like melting into the warmth of him. Loki's magic bubbles beneath his skin, and he can _feel_ it, feel the way his seiðr delights in the presence of its true master, feel the way it settles him back into Steven's lap.

"Tell me," Steven murmurs. It's spoken in the tone of a lover, but Loki feels the order settle on his skin.

"Magic," Loki answers. "Much of the time, I mock him and his apparent expertise. He is very young, in the scheme of things, and I mock him for that too. We talk about the magic I am bound in, we—"

" _This_ one? What do you say about it?"

"I mock him for wishing he owned me," Loki answers. His tone is mild, although he can feel the other man stiffening behind him. "I did tell you he wasn't a good man." Steven sighs, tipping his head forward, and his forehead is damp and gentle against the top of Loki's spine and the back of his neck. "I would wish to own me, had I the option. For many years, I did."

"That's not funny."

"Yes, it is. You're merely too close to the situation. It would be a very humorous joke at a cosmic orgy." Steven's hands slide beneath the water, playing over Loki's hips and settling against his belly, feeling the secondary sternum there beneath his palms. Steven's heavy, muscular thighs pin Loki's on either side, and Steven's chest is against Loki's back, and Loki feels, for a second, like he could die here. Quite happily. He wishes he could.

"Doesn't it make you angry?" Steven asks, softly, as if he is _praying_ for Loki to say "yes", as if he thinks he will get Loki to change his mind. "Doesn't it make you scared?"

"No," Loki replies, smoothly. "He cannot own me. You do. And as I believe I've yet established, that scares me not at all." Steven groans against the back of his neck, the sound vibrating over Loki's skin. "Doesn't _this_ upset you?"

"What?" Steven asks, quietly.

"I'm as cold as a corpse," Loki answers, simply. "I have the deaths of hundreds of thousands behind me; I have committed crimes and savageries and acts of war and espionage; I have caused pain, and delighted in it. Doesn't that _disgust_ you?" There's a long, drawn-out pause.

"Redemption—"

"Deflection comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" Loki disentangles himself from Steven's arms, and the water begins to drain from the bath. It steams from his body and Steven's alike, leaving their skin and hair each dry, and Loki allows the other man his hand, helping him from the slick marble of the bath. "I haven't slept in a few days. I'm going to take some hours."

" _What_?" Steven demands, and he grabs Loki by the wrist, pulling him closer. "When was the last time you slept?"

"With you," Loki says, quietly. "I haven't had time since. I don't require as much sleep as you."

"Let's sleep in," Steven murmurs.

" _Let's_?" Loki repeats, dryly, pushing the door to the bathroom open, and he slides between the liquid-silk sheets of his bed, settling between them and laying his head upon one of his pillows. Steven moves forward, pressing his fingers to it, and he frowns, then reaching beneath the sheets to push against what would, on a Midgardian bed, be a mattress.

"You literally sleep on a bed of stone?" Steven asks.

"I sleep more than I once did," Loki answers, simply. The stone bed is formed of marble much like that in the bath, a soft cloth of silk separating it from his bare skin, and the "pillows" are formed of a sort of icy quartz rock, another cloth wrapped around each of them. Steven is looking at him as if he's something foreign and strange, as if Loki has just fallen from the sky before him.

"When you sit on the hard chairs, and take the cushion off the deck chairs outside…"

"I've always preferred hard surfaces," Loki says softly. "When my Jötunn form was revealed to me, it made more sense. The Jötnar do not have soft beds, or pillows, nor even a blanket of leaves to walk upon when they move through the tundra. There is an extra layer of stiffened muscle between out outer layer of skin and fat, and our musculature beneath. This layer tenses or relaxes to allow more or less heat to escape the body. However, even at its most relaxed, it is still tough to the touch. Our bodies are not soft, like Æsir or Vanir bodies. They do not lend themselves to lounging, or relaxing upon eiderdown or softness."

"It annoys you, doesn't it?" Steven asks, in a casual, easy tone, as if he's trying to tease more information out of Loki, as if he thinks Loki may turn around and snarl at him at any moment. Perhaps he is correct. "When people think you're Æsir, or human?"

"I thought for so long I was one of them. Freakish, ill-suited to my own white skin, too hot even in the winter sun, tossing and turning in my soft bed, despising the sweet cakes that were bestowed upon me upon my name day. I lived ever under the belief that I genuinely _was_ a monster, a changeling child, some horror unnatural… And I was not. I never was. I simply wasn't Æsir. I shall speak to you later." Loki turns upon his side, his eyes closing, and then he feels Steven slide onto the bed beside him, a gap of a foot or so between them. "Steven… You can't sleep here. You'll injure your back."

"You slept in _my_ bed," Steven points out. "How was that for _your_ back?" Loki is silent for a long few moments, uncertain what to say, and then he waves his hand. Beneath Steven, the thin silk is built up into an eiderdown mattress of thick, downy feathers, and a quilt lays itself gently over Steven's body, pressing around his chest and legs, insulating him from the cool body beside him. Loki does not turn to look at him, but he can feel Steven's gaze on the back of his neck.

"Stop smiling," he says, crisply.

"Make me," Steven retorts, and Loki closes his eyes all the tighter.

 **June 17th, 2012  
03:45PM**

Steve pours himself another cup of coffee, watching the dark liquid slowly pour thickly into the mug, and then he picks it up, inhaling slowly and enjoying the bitterness that fills his lungs and settles heavy in his nostrils. Nine hours of sleep. _Nine hours_. God, how long's it been since he slept that long?

"Hey, JARVIS, where's Loki?" Tony asks as he enters the room.

"I cannot locate him, sir. He was last in Captain Rogers' office," JARVIS says. Tony nods his head, slowly.

"See, JARVIS says that, because there aren't any sensors in Loki's room," he says, conversationally, to Steve. "How long was he in Captain Rogers' office?"

"Approximately five hours, sir."

" _Really_?" Tony hums out a quiet sound, standing beside Steve and reaching over him for the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug. "Gee. Five hours in Steve's office. That's a long time."

"Quit it, Tony," Steve says quietly. Tony shoves him, hard, in the chest, hard enough that some of Steve's coffee spills on his arm and his hand, and Tony looks at Steve like he's the scum of the Earth, like he's the most _disgusting_ thing Tony's ever laid eyes on. Steve reaches for some kitchen paper, wiping the coffee away from his hand and arm as it burns him slightly.

"You're fucking disgusting. You know that? You are… People think you're a fucking hero. They think, oh, damn, _Captain America_ , he must be the greatest guy out there, but you, you're so— You're so _sanctimonious_. You think you can just do _whatever the Hell you want_ , fuck the consequences, and you know what? There _are_ consequences."

"You done?" Steve asks, quietly.

"No! No, I'm _not_ done, he—"

"We've been tiptoeing around it for a while," Steve says. "He kept coming on to me, and I kept saying no. And last night… The levee broke. It's not gonna happen again."

"What, five hours is enough to tide you over?" Tony asks, tone dripping with sarcasm, and Steve finds himself surprised by how little the fury on his face actually _affects_ him. "What the fuck did you _do_ to him?"

"Come with me," Steve says, and he begins to lead the way toward the corridor, but Tony barges past him, knocking hard against Loki's door.

"Oh, is that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers with the _Loki is always right_ door-to-door service?" Rolling his eyes, Steve pushes the door open, and he looks at Loki. The other man is seated beside the window, at his desk, and he has his laptop open in front of him, making notes in his notebook.

"You're not always right," Steve mutters, and he pushes the door closed as Tony moves into the room.

( _"You know," Loki had started, quietly. It was coming up to eleven in the morning, and Steve was still curled up on top of Loki's bed, watching him work across the room. It had been a long, long time since Steve had just laid in a bed like this, let alone watching a guy sit completely naked at his desk. "Anthony is going to know."_

 _"He isn't going to know."_

 _"He's going to know." Steve had rolled over, closing his eyes again, and Loki had chuckled softly._ )

"Yes, I consented, no, he did not force me, yes, I am telling the truth, no, it will not happen again. Also, I've decided I'm a Capricorn."

"Technically, the US Government decided you were a Capricorn," Steve says casually, and when Tony moves to elbow him in the side, Steve catches his fist in his palm, not wanting to spill his coffee a second time. "Tony. Seriously, it's fine. I wouldn't hurt him."

"You're not gonna do it again, huh?" Tony asks, lowly, and he comes into the room, sitting down on Loki's bed. Loki turns in his seat. He is wearing long, flowing robes with a plunging neckline and long, airy sleeves – they're nothing like Steve's ever seen before, and he assumes they're from some other planet.

"We've elected to allow each other several months to rest on the thought," Loki says quietly. "We're each aware of the issues this specific dalliance would entail. Steven is worried about the ethics of my consent; I myself worry that such a dalliance would only compound his difficulty in recognising the truth of our unique situation, and indeed that it would only make it difficult for him to view me as a member of his command."

"So, we kinda thought… Transparency," Steve says, quietly. "I don't really want to advertise this to the whole team, but to _you_ …"

"Oh, God," Tony says, putting his head in his hands. "I'm HR."

"H-R?"

"He means Human Resources," Steve says, "It's a business thing—" But Loki is already Googling it, frowning at the Wikipedia article in front of him. He looks at Tony, for a long few moments, and then says, "Your first assumption, that's— That's kinda why we're not gonna do anything. I don't want to take advantage of him, and neither of us want people to _think_ I'm taking advantage of him."

"Actually," Loki starts, "I would much rather we all _embrace_ the nature of our bond, which—"

"Odin didn't intend for this."

"Odin is a two-bit sorcerer with no depth perception." Steve chokes on his coffee, feeling some of it snort ugly and bitter and hot in his nostrils, and he coughs hard into his hand, but Loki doesn't stand down. " _Anyway_ , Steven and I _did_ have sex last night. I presume you have questions?"

"He doesn't—"

"How was it?" Tony asks.

"Very good," Loki answers.

"Five hours?"

"We took breaks every hour or so."

"Weren't you sore after?"

"Very." Steve looks between the two of them, uncomprehending.

"Isn't the whole point of this that nobody harasses him?"

"No," Tony says. "The point is that _you_ don't harass him. I'm not harassing him: he asked if I had any questions. And he can still crush me like a bug."

"All of this is true," Loki agrees. Steve feels distinctly as if he is being _ganged up_ on, and it's bad enough that he's already agreed to back right out of the Loki thing, already bad enough that _he_ suggested a few months to cool off and even after the bath, and sleeping together, Loki is keeping to it, and—

He's right to.

Loki thinks of the way Loki had bent under him, how he had seemed to read Steve's _thoughts_ – Steve thinks of the scratch marks that cover his back from his shoulders down to his waist, the crescent marks dug into his thighs and his ass, the bruises on the backs of his legs, the bites and scratches across his body. Loki had been positively feral, a mess of limbs and desperate gasps beneath him, and God, Steve had never _imagined_ sex could be like that, could go on again and again, even with magic sparking him to life.

"We good?" Steve asks. Tony glances to Loki, then he nods his head. He ruffles Loki's hair as he walks past, making Loki let out a hiss of irritation, but then he walks with Steve out into the corridor, and Steve slowly sips at his drink.

"You didn't want to stop, huh?"

"He made me choose. Go public or lay off for a while. But if we went public… The scrutiny alone would drive him insane. If we wait, it's clear it's organic. Looks less like he manipulated me into it, or that I forced him into it." Steve taps the side of his mug, slowly, and then says, "I don't want him hurt 'cause of me. Anyway… You have that recommendation I emailed you for?"

"Yeah, hate to break it to you, Cap, but nobody emails anymore," Tony says, but he presses a card into Steve's hand all the same. Steve looks down at it, reading the name on the professionally printed card. _Eanna McDonagh, Psychologist._

"You went Irish, huh?"

"For you," Tony says. He hands over another piece of paper, with just a name and a number scrawled on the page: _Sven Haugen._ "He's for Loki. He's Norwegian. Loki can either phone in, or use his new teleportation trick. I figured it was best you guys didn't have the same guy, and I figured Loki would like the extra layer of having a guy who doesn't use the Internet, doesn't have his files in English, and lives on a different continent."

"He doesn't use the Internet?" Steve says, sceptically.

"Yeah, I know," Tony mutters, shaking his head with disapproval. "But, I mean… It's Loki."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, quietly. "It is."

 **June 17th, 2012  
05:42PM**

"Take this to him. Please," Loki says softly, holding out the envelope, and the bird _caws_ , quietly. It is a beautiful animal, a magpie with dark, shining eyes and glossy black and white feathers, and when it flies away with the envelope clasped in its beak, Loki smiles. Then, he adjusts the position of his knees upon the stone, and he draws a little more of the silver out of the rock, heating it slowly between his palms.

Purifying silver is not so difficult, and he draws more and more of the ore out of the stone beneath him and into his palms, where it pools glossy and shiny between his cupped hands. It has been a great deal of time since he has done this, and he takes care in creating the two cufflinks in the shape of two twin snakes – Jormungandr. These cufflinks are then laid aside. Next, a tiepin: a wolf, howling at the sky, his teeth silhouetted in silver. And then the silver cools to an easy shine, solid again, and he sets the tiepin aside too. A dagger and a lily make another tiepin; a chain draws itself into the shape of _Mjolnir_ , and clinks softly as it falls into his hand.

He holds the chain between his fingers, feeling the chain hang back and forth beneath his palm, and he sighs, softly. How he loves the sensation of silver against his skin, and how he loves its colour, its shine.

Loki is the patron of silversmiths on a great many planets: the metal simply speaks to him, sings to his very heart, and just as he has crafted his tongue from silver, so too can he craft other things.

He feels the displacement of the air behind him, and then he feels the magpie settle upon his shoulder, nibbling against the bar in his ear, and Loki chuckles. "Yes, my friend, very well," he says softly, and he draws more silver from the earth, creating ultrathin, polished threads of silver. Carefully, he weaves them into a wreath, seeing how they catch the light, and he gently settles the wreath about the head of his helpful companion.

The magpie caws, once more, and flies off with its burden upon its shoulders, taking it home to its nest – and its spouse.

"You can talk to birds?" Stephen asks.

"People keep ignoring the word _Allspeak_ ," Loki says, turning from his place upon the ground. He draws the last of the silver from the ground, and he holds the silver between his palms as it becomes abruptly molten, carefully weaving itself into the shape of a ring, a band of silver rope tying itself into an easy circle, and it cools before him. He offers it to Stephen, and Stephen smiles, taking the ring from his hands: as expected, Stephen does not put it on, but instead inspects it, curiously.

"What spell do you use for this?" Loki laughs at him. Stephen's dark brows furrow, and he crosses his arms over his chest, holding the ring in his palm. "What's so funny?"

"Your mind is so closed-in," Loki murmurs, softly. "You are so hemmed in by your spells and your rituals. Your silly little title blinds you to the reality of the situation." It is funny. With Wanda, she is humble, and knows much of what Loki might teach her; with Stephen, he is oh-so _arrogant_ , and Loki feels no desire to teach him at all, nor accept his offers of tutelage. Stephen scowls at him.

"Come here," Loki instructs, softly, and Stephen comes closer, slowly. "Kneel."

" _Kneel_?" Stephen repeats, coldly, and Loki drags the other man by the robes at his hips, pulling him down into his lap. Despite the light muscle on Stephen's form and the fact that the other man is taller and lankier than Loki himself, it is with _ease_ that Loki pulls him down, for he is much stronger than the other man, regardless of how much magic he has at his disposal.

"What a lovely blanket you make," Loki murmurs in Stephen's ear, and he feels the way the other man shivers in his lap, likely at the cool breath that plays over the back of his neck. "I had been feeling the chill."

"Teach me," Stephen demands. Loki shoves him in the back of the head, and Stephen turns, wrapping his hand around Loki's throat, but when he squeezes, he cannot quite force his fingers against Loki's flesh. Loki raises his eyebrows at him, feeling the _strain_ in Stephen's damaged hand, but he might as well be trying to squeeze stone.

"So arrogant," Loki murmurs, amusedly. "Stephen, I have no _obligation_ to teach you: I invited you here to do so, and yet here you are, scorning my affections, demanding I do that which I am already doing…" Loki trails off, slowly. "Why, I might become _upset_ , and not teach you anything at all." Stephen sets his jaw, and Loki sees the swirl of emotion in his eyes, sees the _frustration_ there.

"I am the _Sorcerer Supreme,"_ Stephen says, lowly, venomously. "You will show me some _respect_."

"How much respect ought I show the child upon my knee?" Loki asks, silkily, and then the power crackles from Stephen's palm, burning against the flesh of Loki's neck, and Loki cuts a rift in the ground beneath them, leaving them falling into some nether-realm, with no gravity on any side, and then Loki is surging to kiss the other man, his fingers buried in Stephen's hair, his fingernails digging into his scalp, and angrily, _furiously_ , Stephen kisses him back. Energy crackles between them, fierce and hot and electrifying, and it is leagues away from the way he had kissed Steven Rogers, leagues away from the primal, earthly way they had dragged at one another.

 _This_? This is otherworldly.

They come to a sudden stop on the ground again, above the vein of silver Loki had spent so many hours trying to find, with Loki straddling Stephen's thighs, his hands upon Stephen's chest. "Don't you wish you had me?" Loki asks, softly. "Don't you wish you had me like one of those _books_ I gave you, bound in your palms, forced to give me whatever knowledge you wanted? Don't you _wish_?" Loki speaks in the softest tone he can, his body pressed against Stephen's, his breath cool and frosty against the other man's lips, and Stephen fists his hands in the front of Loki's robes, baring his teeth.

"I could swallow _stars_ ," Stephen growls. "You think I can't take you?"

"I _have_ swallowed stars," Loki replies. " _Twice_. Cease with your posturing, boy, and understand what there is before you. I am a _god_. I am not merely a witch, or a petty enchanter: I am worshiped across twelve star systems, _twenty seven planets_ , and millions look to me in their daily devotions, and regardless of how you wear your _shiny_ little badge, I am glorious in a way you will never, never comprehend. Embrace me, and be glad I don't turn you to _dust_." He hisses the last word, and he sees the mix of anger, frustration and the slightest bit of _fear_ that runs through Stephen's eyes, and then it cracks, giving way to something else entirely.

Desire.

A desire for knowledge, for power, for control, but most of all, most of _all_ – a desire for him. As it should be. And like this, _like this_ , Loki wants to burn away the touch of Steven Rogers on his skin, wants to burn away the _good_ , wants to feel filthy, and bitten, and owned.

"Does this count as a third date?" Loki asks in a low, easy purr, and Strange's laugh is full to the brim with sleek, blood-tainted power.

"Oh, yes," he says, and Loki's robes tear under his burning hands.


	13. Brought To Justice 13

**June 17th, 2012  
05:12PM**

Tony shifts forward in his seat, holding the blowtorch against the seam of the metal. The heat that comes off it is purifying, even through the mask and his heavy gloves, and he keeps his focus on it, hearing the roar of the hot-burning flame in his ears until the solder is completely in place, and then he puts the torch aside, pushing up the helmet.

Rhodey is watching him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gaze landing on Tony. "You look tired," he says.

"Tired?" Tony asks, raising his eyebrows. "Me? God, man. I haven't been tired since MIT." Rhodey smiles at him. It's a sad smile, and Tony sighs, drawing the helmet off his head and moving to stand. "How're you doing?"

"Maybe a little better," Rhodey says diplomatically, "for now." Tony reaches out, pulling the other man into a tight, _rib-crushing_ hug, and despite the filth on his gloves and the front of his shirt, Rhodey leans right into it, hugging him back. "You wanna go get a drink?" There's a quiet note of _something_ in Rhodey's voice, but Tony ignores it, and instead nods his head.

"Yeah, sure. Let's head out."

 **June 17th, 2012  
05:12PM**

Steve sits in the very corner of the bar, slowly nursing a triple. _Mulligan's_ (it had been _The Crane_ , once upon a time) is busy with the session, and he watches silently as the players laugh and nudge each other as they play. He sees two accordions, a pair of ilin pipes, a bodhran, a few mandolins and banjos, some fiddles – one guy even has a damned _oboe_ , and the sound that echoes around the draughty, people-warmed room is incredible, ringing off the wooden floors and building to a crescendo against the stone walls.

He hopes they sing again soon.

The whiskey burns when he sips at it, but it has no effect on him, not really. He's pretty sure he could drink straight from the bottle, and it wouldn't so much as make him tispy.

Steve never has been a drinker, but even still. It'd be nice. Maybe for his birthday, he'll ask Loki for some of that _mead_ stuff. Nah. He won't ask for anything – it's not gonna be the same, if Loki has to give it to him. He thinks of the way Loki had hesitated when Steve had asked to try that stupid Grappa drink, and how he'd _overruled_ him, ordered Loki to let him try anyway—

Had he meant it as an order? Really?

It's just so easy. He hates how easy it is, how natural it is for an order to fly out of his mouth, and how naturally Loki seems to acquiesce. But it _isn't_ natural, is it? He does it because his seiðr makes him, not because he's subservient, somehow, and…

Steve takes another sip of the whiskey. Feels its burn. His phone vibrates, and he glances at it.

 **Steve Rogers, 04:42PM  
Where are you? JARVIS says you're not in New York.**

 **Loki, 05:12PM  
Alaska.**

 **Steve Rogers, 5:12PM  
Alaska? Why?**

 **Loki, 05:13PM  
I'm mining for silver.**

 **Steve Rogers, 05:13PM  
I can't tell if you're joking or not.**

 **Loki, 05:14PM  
How abstract do you believe my humour to be? I can assure you with veracity that I am seeking out a vein of silver.**

 **Steve Rogers, 05:15PM  
But why?**

 **Loki, 05:16PM  
If I am to be wearing suits, I can hardly wear them without accessory, and conjuring heavy metals is rather difficult. One has to focus upon the atomic structure, aesthetic and general sensation at once, and while it is not beyond my capabilities, certainly it is easier to simply take in ore and work it myself.**

 **Loki, 05:16PM  
That aside, I longed for the fjords.**

 **Steve Rogers, 05:18PM  
You "longed" for them?**

 **Loki, 05:19PM  
Longing for the fjords is a universal emotion. I shall not be deterred.**

Steve chuckles, setting his phone aside. It shouldn't fill him with such warmth, to have Loki text him shit like that – shouldn't make him want to head out to Alaska right the Hell now, shouldn't make him want to _kiss_ him.

And kissing…

 **Steve Rogers, 05:23PM  
Don't you have a dinner reservation?**

He doesn't reply back right away. Steve taps his fingers on the side of the bar, sipping at the drink, and he thinks about the reservation. Thinks about Strange's smug face, his thin jaw, the patches of _grey_ at his temples… _He isn't a good man_. It's one thing for Steve to have an instinct that the guy is slightly off, but another thing entirely for _Loki_ , of all people, to say he isn't a good man.

And that must mean something, something, because— Stephen Strange is a damned _hero_. He's looked up to and respected throughout the superhero community, and he's protected Earth countless times.

What the Hell can he be like behind closed doors for Loki to say that?

 **Loki, 05:30PM  
Oh, of course. Not until seven, though, and I'm practising my dimensional transitways.**

 **Steve Rogers, 05:31PM  
How come you find them so hard? Everything else seems to come to you pretty naturally.**

 **Loki, 05:31PM  
Nothing comes to me naturally. I have practised magic every day for three thousand years. The ease with which I perform it comes not from mere talent, but hard graft. And dimensional transitways… They made me dizzy, and have done since I first began to practise them some two thousand years ago. Barring the path between myself and my library, which is well-trodden – as a score through the earth – I have never seen fit to practise them much.**

 **Loki, 05:32PM  
Before I came to Earth, I could Skywalk everywhere, and rather fast, in the scheme of things. Teleportation was hardly a priority.**

 **Steve Rogers, 05:32PM  
You could skywalk, you know. You don't exactly need airspace clearance**.

Loki doesn't reply. He's probably found a silver vein. Whatever _that_ entails, exactly – Steve sincerely doubts he's spelunking in some cave, because that conjures an image of Loki with coal on his face, a hard-hat on his head, and it's just… Undignified.

So. Strange.

Would it be that bad if Steve just told the Avengers? Would they really be so pissed, so angry?

Tony knows. And Tony had been fine, once Loki had explained the situation, and answered some vaguely invasive questions. Clint? Clint… Clint would be kinda sensitive. As angry as he is about what Loki had done to him, Steve's pretty sure he doesn't want to see Loki taken advantage of in even remotely the same way. Nat? Yeah. Nat would… Not like it. She knows all too well how easy it is to back somebody in a corner, to say things they don't mean, to fake enthusiasm where they don't really have it. Bruce probably wouldn't like it either, although he'd probably believe Steve and Tony in the end, and Thor—

Steve swallows.

Yeah. Saying he's _not_ taking advantage, then turning down two days later, after Loki's had a huge anxiety attack in a public place? That'd probably look pretty suspect to Thor.

 _And what do you care about people's perceptions of you?_ says that voice, that voice of Erskine's. _Does it matter?_

 _It does if it'd hurt him,_ Steve thinks. _If people treated him even worse than now, just because we'd taken up together._

There is no reply.

 **June 17th, 2012  
07:46PM**

There is something deeply pleasurable about settling to an expensive dinner with an ache in his thighs. Loki sits straight-backed, feeling the wet heat within him settle in his core. Stephen's spend is as thick with magic as the rest of him, and Loki can feel it washed against the walls of his arse, hot and tingling with power.

Loki's satisfaction is plain as he leans back leisurely in his seat, ever straight-backed and refined in his pose, and he can see the slight smirk on Stephen's _arrogant_ face.

"I knew a man like you, once," Loki murmurs.

"There are no men like me," Stephen replies, confidently.

"He was an architect," Loki says, mildly. As he speaks, he leans forward slightly, his forearms rested against the edge of the table (but not his elbows, of course) as he slowly sips at his white wine. It is of a decent vintage, well-paired with the starter he had ordered, but he will order red wine for his next glass. "Well, after a fashion. He built from scratch the planet of Koom. Have you been there?"

"No," Stephen says in a quiet voice. He is leaning back in his seat, his elbows loosely set over the arms of his chair, and he looks like a king of old, insistent upon wearing his _obscene_ robes even though Loki is wearing a suit of deepest blue. It irritates Loki, somewhat, but there are worse parts of Strange's personality to criticize.

"He died in the pit of a raging star," Loki murmurs. His tone is conversational, and he swills his wine about in its glass, setting his nostrils over the bowl and _inhaling_ its fine scent. "He had been told, you see, that were spells there of which he knew not, and he was ever in search of greater power."

"Who told him that, I wonder?" Stephen replies, his voice sonorous and smooth, and Loki laughs.

"Is that an accusation?"

"Is it the truth?"

"He was an ugly soul," Loki says mildly. "I wanted him. So I had him."

"Then killed him?"

"No," Loki murmurs. "Killing him _was_ having him. I ate his heart, and then I stole his library. Or… _inherited_ , I suppose is the word. The world of sorcerers is cut-throat indeed, Stephen. Surely you know this."

"Surely," he repeats. Loki's gaze flits down to his hands, which are thick with scarring. Stephen notices his gaze, and he sets his jaw, looking expectantly at Loki's face, but Loki says nothing. "You have a question?"

"No," Loki says. "Do you?"

"You're staring."

"Your hands shake." Stephen's nostrils flare, and Loki arches a graceful eyebrow. "Oh, were we not making a game of stating the obvious?"

"I hurt my hands—"

"I've read your Wikipedia entry," Loki says mildly. "I know what the scars are from."

"Then _why_ —"

"Why do you wear them?" Loki interrupts him with the question, leaning forward slightly. His gaze is upon Stephen's face now, his curiosity showing on his face. "They disrupt the lines of your hands. Graceful, beautiful, and yet you wear the scars atop them. Why?"

"They won't heal," Stephen says.

"But you needn't _show_ them." Stephen frowns at him, delicately drawing one lightly quivering finger around the rim of his glass, as if he is trying to puzzle something especially complex out of Loki.

"The scars are the truth," Stephen says, finally. "Everybody knows I have them. Why bother to hide them? It would just be… Wasted energy." Loki frowns slightly, considering the words, tasting them in his head. _It would hardly be wasted_ , Loki wants to say. _You would be less ugly. More beautiful_. "Why, do you really hate to look at them so much?"

"No," Loki says. "They accentuate the hard lines of your hands, make ever clearer the muscle and bone in stark contrast to the skin itself. And I believe I have made clear enough to you how I appreciate their _unique_ sensation." Stephen glances to Loki's own hands, one of which is curled about his wine glass' delicate stem, and the other of which is loosely held before him. "Yes," he says, before Stephen can ask the question. "There are scars upon my hands."

"How many scars do you have?" Stephen asks. On the one hand, it is a natural continuation of the conversation they are having, but on the other hand, Loki can feel the slight _taint_ to the words – possessive. _Why do you hide things from me? Why can't I see every part of you?_

"Dozens," Loki says.

"Will you show me?" Stephen's gaze is intent, his eyes on Loki's.

"Eventually," he says quietly. Stephen seems to understand this is a _tender_ spot, and he retracts, just slightly – enough that Loki will reward him for his restraint. Magic shimmers over the surface of his palms and the backs of his hands, and he shapeshifts away from the perfect, _smooth_ form he is so used to: his hands are bared. Immediately, Stephen is scooting forth in his seat, and as much as Loki might find that possessive streak annoying, it equally makes a satisfaction _bloom_ within – a desire to be possessed.

"May I?" he asks, softly. Loki slides his hands across the table, and Stephen's hands touch his own, examining them. It is plain he is trained in medicine, much as his scarred hands shake as he moves them: there is an analytical precision in the way he looks at the cold flesh of Loki's skin, as if he is counting the bones he traces beneath the flesh. Loki has all manner of small cuts and burns upon his hands, scattered across each of them in lines of pink and red and brown, with callouses on his fingers and palm, and on his left hand, the heel is missing a chunk of flesh entirely. Stephen traces the line, curious. The piece missing is around the size of a dime, and Loki shrugs his shoulders.

"I was trapped in a network of caves: the flesh was a sacrifice to the spirit therein." Stephen's eyes flit to Loki's other hand, now. There is the same spread of scars and callouses, but most prominently is a curved, savaged part of the flesh, where sharp teeth have obviously torn at the flesh. There are dimpled scars for each of the teeth, and Stephen's finger traces the curve of the jaws. "My son." Stephen glances up, confused.

"Your son?"

"He was having a tantrum," Loki murmurs, mildly. "I insisted he come home: he was not done playing. I reached to grab him by the scruff of the neck, and he bit me, savaged my hand. The strength of his jaws was quite incredible – I was very proud indeed, even as I caught him up in my arms and carried him home."

"He was a shapeshifter?" Stephen asks, his eyebrows raising. He seems to know, _instinctively_ – perhaps as a result of the distant melancholy in Loki's tone, perhaps because he already knows the cosmic truth of the matter – to use the past tense.

"No. He was a wolf." Loki keeps his gaze very carefully on Stephen's face, looking for any trace of revulsion, but if any comes, he hides it well. Stephen's shaky finger traces the dimples.

"You're proud of this one," he murmurs.

"Yes," Loki agrees. "Yes, very proud." He shifts the position of their hands, interlocking his fingers with Stephen's: their scars brush against one another's, and it feels… Strange. Loki doesn't often touch people with his scars on display. Even with Angrboða, even with Sigyn— "Does your wife know?"

"My wife?"

"Does she know?"

"How did you—"

"Wikipedia."

"Right." Stephen's heartbeat has increased just slightly, Loki can feel beneath the skin of his hand, but it matters little. A waiter comes, and Loki draws their hands apart, allowing the fellow to take away the plates for their starters and replace them with _mains,_ as well as setting down a glass of red wine. Pasta. A curious staple, and yet one Loki rather finds an appreciation for. "We're... We have an arrangement."

"An arrangement of infidelity?" Loki prompts. Stephen scowls at him, and after a pause, Loki says, "I am estranged from my wife, also." Stephen looks up from his steak, his expression quietly curious.

"Infidelity?"

"Don't project, Stephen. It's unseemly." Loki finishes his glass of white, setting it aside. Stephen's lips flatten into a line, abut it seems he realises he _deserved_ it, and so he says nothing more. "Our children were murdered. We parted ways soon after." A shadow passes over Stephen's face, a ghost of past melancholy.

"How many?"

"Two boys. But three yet live."

"No daughters?"

"One. Just one." Stephen nods his head, and then they settle into an easy silence for a few minutes, each of them eating their meals quietly. The food is… Good. _Very_ good. It has been many years indeed that Loki has settled down to so pleasant (and no doubt expensive) a meal with another individual of refined tastes. The thought makes him smile.

"What is it?" comes the question. "You've got a dreamy sort of look on your face."

"Merely contentment," Loki says. "That is all."

 **June 17th, 2012  
02:57AM**

"Go, go, go!" Steve orders, and his feet pound on the tarmac of the New York City streets, even as they crack and quake beneath him. Above him, Tony roars past, and up on the rooftops he can see Nat and Clint running side by side, leaping between buildings with ease. "Banner, you on board?" he calls into the radio pinned in his ear.

No answer.

" _Banner?"_

"Hulk smash!" comes the growled response, and Steve can't help the short laugh of relief it punches out of him. Okay, okay, so they're mobilising: out on the edge of town, there's some huge disturbance, something ripping itself up out of the ground, and it's sending tremors all the way through New York.

 _That'd had been it,_ Steve thinks, _The thing before the press conference…_

But no. That's not something he needs to think about right now. He needs to think about the monster slowly working its way out of the concrete out here in Greenwich, letting out rumbling roars. It's fifty feet high at least, and it bubbles with magma and lava as its fists punch out, grabbing at Stark as he flies a little too close, but Stark is already flying away.

"Don't let it touch you!" Stark says over the comms, and Steve begins to run closer. "That thing… I'm reading really high temperatures, and that thing'll just straight up melt you." A spit of half-molten rocks is thrown in Steve's direction, and he holds the shield over his head, deflecting them each to the ground. The Hulk is keeping his distance, likely out of pure instinct, and he is _hurling cars_ at the monster, but they're just melting right into it. Even from here, forty feet away, Steve can feel the obscene heat radiating off it, and he glances around.

Fire hydrants? Worth a try.

"Barton, I want you to rig an explosive arrow and hit that hydrant on the corner, there— Can you see where I'm pointing?"

"Got it, Cap," Clint barks out.

"Stark, there's another one on the other side, right?"

"Yeah," Tony says, and Steve watches as he flies around the big, gelatinous… Thing. The benefit of how liquid it is, even as it melts the tarmac it slides over, is that it moves obscenely slowly, and Steve grips his shield in his hands, ready to throw it like a frisbee through the nearest hydrant.

"Right. One, two, three—!"


	14. Brought To Justice 14

**June 17th, 2012  
10:19PM**

It is hardly the _marathon_ Steven and Loki had engaged in, but there is a pleasant ache in Loki's thighs from being spread wide upon the bed, and he gently rubs his red wrists, feeling where the makeshift bondage had _dug_ into his skin – so much stronger than it ought have been, seiðr-strong. Stephen is lying on his side beside him, his chin rested upon the heel of one of his hands, and he is watching Loki as if Loki is some especially pleasant piece of art.

Yes, with the session in the _fjords_ earlier on, Loki is more than forgiving of Stephen Strange's comparative lack of stamina – he's only human, after all.

"You're freezing," Stephen murmurs quietly. Loki is sprawled on his belly, his face pressed into the pillow he has gripped between his arms, and Stephen's scarred fingers draw a path down the length of Loki's spine, as if tracing paint upon canvas, just for the pleasure of feeling the way the oil has dried in ridges and shifts. Then, he traces Loki's spine again. Loki can positively _feel_ his frown as he shifts closer, kneeling alongside Loki, and now _both_ his hands trace the length of Loki's spine, pressing hard enough to feel the individual elements of the spinal column.

"I _do_ hope that's leading to a massage," he says dryly.

"How many vertebrae do you have?"

"Oh, Stephen, please," Loki begs, tonelessly, his voice entirely flat. "Such talk will drive me wild with desire." Stephen's fingers press against the thin bones, individually, and Loki _sighs_. "Don't _count_ them. Around seventy."

"Around?"

"Sixty eight," Loki says, and Stephen lets out a low, amused sound. He shifts, and Loki feels the weight of Stephen's warm, magic-tingling body against his own, the weight of his lightly-muscled form settling upon the considerable cushion of Loki's backside. Loki can feel his cock, wiped clean with a cloth and now soft and heavy, rest against his lower back. The size of _that_ had most certainly been a surprise, but Loki's taken bigger.

"Why so many?"

"Get off me, and I'll show you." Stephen's low laugh echoes off the modern, sleek designs that are carved into his walls, and Loki groans softly as Stephen's palms slide from his waist up the length of his back, the scarred heels of them digging into Loki's muscled form.

"I thought you wanted a massage?" Stephen purrs, his breath hot against the back of Loki's head as he leans down, ghosting through his hair, and his fingernails dig into Loki's shoulders, drawing a short grunt of sound out of him as the tired muscle is _pressed_ upon.

"I suppose I might be convinced to accept one," Loki replies. "But…"

"But?" Loki sits up, resting his forearms on the too-soft fabric of the mattress. "I did… Wonder." He can _feel_ Stephen's eyebrow raise even though he cannot see his face, and he feels the anticipation radiate from the younger sorcerer's body like so much electricity. "Dimensional transitways."

"You struggle with them," Stephen murmurs. His tone is somewhat smug.

"I shall teach you to silversmith if you teach me to better my portals."

"Oh, the great Loki Bölson," Stephen whispers into his ear, and he lets a little power creep into his voice, echoing through the words like a weight of seiðr. Loki hisses as he shivers, feeling Stephen's fingers trace unknowable symbols over the flesh of his shoulders, each of them sending tingling bites and tingles over his skin, "asking me, the Sorcerer Supreme, for tutelage?"

"I will tear your heart from your chest as it yet beats, and devour your soul and title alike," Loki murmurs. "I've done it before."

"Oh, Loki, _please_ ," Stephen replies, his voice smooth and his tongue dancing over the silver bar through the shell of Loki's ear, making him quake. "Such talk will drive me _wild_ with desire." Stephen's cock is growing hard again: Loki can feel the stiffness of its weight against the lower part of his spine, feel the wetness at its head.

"Perhaps it says something about you," he hisses out as Stephen's fingers dig into the back of his neck, massaging roughly at the knotted muscle there, "that you so enjoy to be threatened."

"Perhaps," Stephen assents. He leans in closer, dragging his mouth down the length of Loki's spine, his tongue tracing the thin, inhuman vertebrae, and Loki lets out a shuddering moan at the very _heat_ of it, flooding the rest of his body as it plays over sensitive nerve endings. "You know, I didn't realise it before…" He shifts down, marginally, gracelessly, until he is straddling Loki's thighs instead of his backside, and his hands fist easily in the meat of it, his fingers digging into the flesh, and Loki hisses, pressing his face into his hands. "This? Positively _juicy_. Like a peach." Cold blood is bursting in Loki's cheeks, and his breathing quickens, but he says naught to dissuade the other man, even as his fingers dip between the cleft of Loki's backside, thumb playing over the open wink of his back entrance.

"Don't be obscene," he says, unconvincingly.

" _Me_? Obscene? I've not one of these." And Stephen's hand smacks _hard_ over Loki's left buttock, making him jolt on the bed. "This is obscenity."

"Let's go again."

"Ooh, _let's_."

 **June 17th, 2012  
05:43PM**

"Drowning your sorrows, huh?" Rhodey asks, and Steve looks up, grinning at Tony and Rhodey both as they come and slide into seats beside him.

"Something like that," Steve says. "The drink doesn't do much. You drinking?" His gaze flits to Tony, who looks levelly back.

"Yeah," Tony says, tapping the bar with his MIT ring. "That a problem?" Tony Stark is an alcoholic. Steve knows it like he knows anything – Tony is an alcoholic, like his father was an alcoholic, and like a Hell of a lot of other rich boys with issues are alcoholics. Tony's lips are pressed together, his gaze fixated on Steve's face.

"Nah," Steve says, quietly, and Tony sits down beside him.

"Where's the boy wonder?" Rhodey asks, and Steve glances at his phone.

"Alaska," he says.

" _Alaska_?" Tony repeats, staring uncomprehendingly at him. "Why's he in Alaska?"

"He's mining for silver."

"You messing with us?" Rhodey asks, and Steve shakes his head.

"Yeah, that's what I said," he mutters, giving an easy nod of his head. He sips a his whiskey, rolling the heat of it on his tongue, and then he says, "He said something about needing new jewellery, making his own.

"Silver isn't that expensive," Tony says, running his hand through his hair and looking thoughtful. "I coulda just bought him some." It rankles with Steve, for just a second – Tony's solution to everything is to just _buy_ something, and yet he knows it comes to it, Tony doesn't mean _badly_ by it. Steve is just… In a bad mood.

"Knowing how picky he is, it probably wouldn't have been up to his standard," Rhodey says, not unkindly. He says it simply, factually. He's a good man, loyal to a fault, Steve knows, but they share a lot in common – he and Rhodey are both officers more than they're just soldiers. They both know how to give commands, and they both know how to take them. "He likes to do stuff himself."

"That's pretty relatable," Tony says as he takes a sip of his scotch, and he flicks his fingernail against the glass, making it ring softly. "He gonna be okay here, you think? In the end?" Steve feels himself frown, feels his brows knit themselves together, and he sets his jaw. It's not an unreasonable question, but nor is it one that he feels he knows the answer to, and that frustrates him. Thor had said Loki seems happy here, and _Loki_ had said he thought he could be happy here, but…

"I don't know," Steve says quietly. "I don't think anybody can really be happy tied up like he is. It's not right."

"But you can't let him go," Rhodey says quietly. Steve and Tony both look to him: Rhodey's expression is solemn, and serious. "This is a sentencing. Maybe once he's reformed, sure, but… I don't know how you'd know when that was."

"Thor talks about it like it'll only end when I die," Steve says. Tony whistles, lowly.

"What, there's not like… I don't know. A _Calypso, I release you from your human bonds_ kinda option?" Tony asks, and Steve squints at him.

"A what?"

" _Pirates of the Caribbean_ ," Rhodey says. "You'll love it. Ain't you writing this stuff down?"

"Not today," Steve mutters. "But— You mean, what, is there a reverse ritual? Not that Odin mentioned. I kinda figures he wants Loki to remain tied up for as long as possible. There must be something, but… You're right, Rhodey. After two months, we can't just let him go. We'll come back to it. How's _your_ week been?"

"Don't talk to me about it," Rhodey mutters, shaking his head. "My sister's in town, so I took her out to lunch, but God, she is pregnant as _Hell_. Had one of those cravings, you know? We walked through thirty restaurants before we picked somewhere." Tony laughs, nudging Rhodey in the shoulder, and Rhodey shakes his head, knocking back a little of the drink.

"When's she due?" Steve asks, grinning a little. Rhodey looks fond and affectionate, and his smile is proud.

"Three more months," he says, and he says, "God, she works so hard, Jeanette, and she's finally started to, you know, relax. She wants to do the whole work-from-home mom thing."

"How's her wife?" Tony asks, and Rhodey laughs.

"Pretty stressed out. I've never _seen_ Celine so freaked out, honestly, but… I dunno. They're gonna be good moms, I think." Steve's lips quirk into the smallest smile, and he feels himself sink away from the conversation a little. God, he'd always vaguely envisaged a future with Peggy, but… Two women. Two men. They can have kids now. Get married. Welcome to the future, Captain America.

"Yeah, I want kids," Tony is saying, shoving Rhodey in the chest and making Rhodey laugh. "What, you don't?"

"I don't know," Rhodey says, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm excited to have a little niece or nephew, but… Kids? I guess I don't think I'd make much of a dad. You, though. You'd love it." Tony's lips curve into a small, slightly distant smile, and Steve can see by the faraway look in his eyes that he's thinking about Howard. Howard, who by all accounts, was a shitty dad, in the end.

"You'd be a great father," he says. Tony glances at him, his blue eyes slightly wide. "Really."

"Thanks, Cap," he says. "Means a lot." Steve holds up his glass, and the three of them clink their whiskeys together. Steve falls into deep thought once again.

 **June 17th, 2012  
11:03PM**

"You drop that pizza, Rogers, and I swear to God—"

"I'm not gonna drop the pizza!" Steve insists, even though he is juggling three pizzas in one hand, balancing them against his hip, and holding two bottles of soda in the other hand. He backs up slowly into the elevator, and Rhodey leans in to press the button for him.

"I'll race you up the stairs," he hears Tony say as the doors ding closed, and he laughs as he hears Rhodey and Tony's sneakers squeak and slap as they both begin the run up the stairs. God, the two of them… They're like brothers.

Steve's mind immediately flits to Bucky. Bucky, laughing as he stands back to back with Steve in a dirty back-alley; Bucky, sternly telling him to quit trying to enlist in the army; Bucky, screaming as he falls from a train on a cliffside.

Steve's stomach feels sick, and he is grateful to step out of the tight, cloying box of the elevator.

 **June 17th, 2012  
11:03PM**

"Show me, then," Stephen says, quietly. He holds a glass of vodka between his hands, and he watches Loki carefully, sitting on the edge of the bed, as Loki closes his eyes, and focuses. A dimensional transitway is, at its core, a simple process. One is creating a line of seiðr between Location A and Location B: that line travels through the very fabric of the universe, creating an anchor at the other end, and then, one simply… Holds the line. The universe itself continues its constant motion, and one is dragged along the line of magic to one's new destination, without fuss or bother.

Theoretically.

Loki teleports across the room, and immediately groans. His head _spins_ with the sudden movement, and he clutches at the side of his temple, letting out a harsh little sound.

"How long have you been using dimensional transitways?" Stephen asks, watching him carefully. He makes no effort to stand up to support Loki, nor to ensure he does not fall. So much for romantic _concern._

"Perhaps three hundred years. I use them as little as possible, for… Obvious reasons." Slowly, his vision steadies itself, and he inhales, slowly, feeling the ache in his lungs. "I used to struggle with simply getting from one point to another – often I would end up falling into pocket dimensions, or through the gaps between universes…"

"You're Splinching yourself," Stephen says. The Allspeak takes the word, tastes it, and spits a vague, half-formed image into Loki's mind – a limb left behind after one teleports, a spray of blood, a loss of organs…

" _What_?"

"It's a term from Harry Potter," Stephen says. "Haven't you read it?"

"I don't read fiction," Loki says, doing his best to keep the majority of the derision out of his voice, but Stephen laughs anyway.

"Of course you don't," he murmurs, tone _full_ of condescension. "You're leaving parts of yourself behind."

"I believe I'd notice if I left a kidney on the other side of the room," Loki begins, but Stephen holds up one scarred hand, shaking his head slowly.

"It's your magic," he says, patiently. "You're not trusting the connection, and you're leaving some of your seiðr behind you, cutting it off as you move. That's why you feel so dizzy afterwards – you might as well be leaving part of your _soul_ behind, given how intrinsic the magic is to your body. The dizziness passes once you've pulled yourself back together." Loki frowns, focusing on the other side of the room, and this time he turns his focus deep within his core, and he phases across the room. _There_ , the dizziness, the spinning head, but he can feel precisely what Stephen means, feels the web of his seiðr patchy and malformed, like a spider's web caught in a high wind. Threads snap, leaving him unsteady, and he breathes in slowly.

"The disadvantage," Loki murmurs quietly, "of the self-taught. One works oneself into such bad habits. When I learnt the lyre anew, having taught myself, my tutor had to slap my wrists to correct my pose."

"I wouldn't slap your _wrists_ ," Stephen murmurs, his gaze shifting downwards, and Loki blows an icy wind in his direction, making him shudder as he hurriedly wipes off the icy pieces that form on his hairy chest. "I will _never_ get tired of that."

"What?"

"You not using any spells," Stephen replies, leaning forward and putting his chin upon his hands. "Even my shorthand is done with small symbols, scattered words here and there…"

"There are advantages and disadvantages to each method," Loki says diplomatically. Barely _anybody_ performs magic as he and Amora the Enchantress choose to: even performing the most basic of magics takes year upon year of practice, training one's body to take in _clouds_ of magic and form it with thought and desire alone. It is best suited to immortals, but in the end… Once one invites this much magic into one's body? One becomes immortal all the same.

"How many spells do you know?" Strange asks. Loki glances to him, feeling the magic within his body, envisaging it bleeding through his tissues, his organs, his bones, as he focuses on his next dimensional phase.

"Off the top of my head? A few hundred, perhaps."

"And yet I can't do _any_ magic the way you do magic."

"My way is harder than learning spells," Loki says, and he grasps tight at the line of seiðr, feeling the universe shift around him, feeling it come to a stop. He feels his magic within him, thick and fluid, and he exhales, softly. A smile comes to his lips. "Spells are… Like letters. A, B, C, D… Established codes that follow a simple pattern, an alphabet that is known hither and thither. In different combinations, those letters change, creating infinite combinations, but in the end, one needs only learn 26 individual letters. _My_ way is more like… Detailed pictograms, where there is no code at all. One draws what one wishes upon the air anew every day, and the magic understands only so long as your thought and will are clear enough."

"Beautiful," Stephen says. Loki glances at him to check that his gaze rests not upon Loki's backside, but Stephen is looking at his face, his stare intent. "You've been a teacher before?"

"Yes," Loki says mildly. "For many years I lectured on the planet of Koom, in advanced mathematics and applied physics." He phases across the room again, but his concentration is ill-focused, and the _slightest_ haze of dizziness overtakes him – he will be forced to practise the spell again and again, until bringing all of his magic with him becomes habit.

Such is the way.

"What happened?" Stephen asks.

"You needn't be so grave in your tone," Loki murmurs. As he speaks, he moves forward, sliding his hands onto the younger man's shoulders, sliding his hands over the scars there. _Car crashes_. Such messy things. "Thor came for me. I had been gone forty years at that point: he decided it was time for me to return."

"Forty _years_?" Stephen repeats, softly. "Did you do that often?"

"Fairly often," Loki murmurs. "I was never well-suited to Asgard. The people there disliked me, and I fitted ill with the culture there. Every now and then, I would leave. Go elsewhere. Live a different life, be a different person. I am worshiped on twenty-seven planets, as I told you, but not under the same name, the same self. Eventually, however…" Loki trails off, feeling the thickness of a particular piece of scar tissue beneath his fingers, feeling the smoothness of it, without pore, without hair. "I would return. Sometimes, Thor would come for me. He cannot Skywalk, as I can, but Mjolnir will take him anywhere he pleases, if he wishes to go. Most times, I would go back of my own volition, in the end."

"That sounds very lonely," Stephen says. There is no pity on his face, merely a quiet curiosity, an intermingled interest. It is almost freeing, to be able to speak so freely, and be met with no pity at all. "Going back to a place where you're hated every time. Why go back? Why not just refuse?"

"I thought, at the time, that Asgard was where I belonged, that I was going against my nature by fleeing it so fervently. That I was fleeing the truth. Little did I realise it was yet another false life, amongst dozens." Loki's hands slide over Stephen's jaw, up to his cheeks, and Stephen turns his head, kissing Loki's hand. "Multiplicity of self… It is not uncommon."

"How many gods are you, in the end?"

"Fifteen."

"Sounds pretty uncommon to me," Stephen mutters, whistling under his breath, and Loki smiles. "Tell me about them?"

"No," Loki murmurs quietly. "I'll tell you about _one_."

"Tell me…" Stephen's hands slide around Loki's buttocks, pulling him into his lap. It seems that for the time being, Stephen has forgotten entirely about being taught to smith silver, and wants to be told a _bedtime_ story? Well. Loki has been asked for worst things. "The one with the most worshipers. How many?"

"Around twelve billion." Stephen's eyes widen, and Loki laughs, quietly, leaning forward and dropping his weight against Stephen's chest, pinning the other sorcerer beneath him, so that they are chest to chest. " _F'yan_ – God of Truth."

"Of _truth_? What a change."

"Truth and lies aren't so different, in the end," Loki murmurs, and he begins to speak.

 **June 18th, 2012  
2:21AM**

"Cap! Cap!" There's a hand patting his cheek, and Steve is up on his feet, coughing as he chokes on some of his own spit. Clint is standing over him, sliding his vest onto his shoulders, and he says urgently, "We gotta go, man! Wanda's had to go out to Philly, helping the X-Factor with some shoot-out, but there's quakes happening out in Greenwich."

"Quakes?" Steve asks, and he's already on his feet and jogging down the corridor, stripping off his clothes without shame in front of Clint and pulling on his suit. He'd fallen asleep on the couch some way through his conversation with Rhodey and Tony, and neither of them are to be seen – they're probably still awake, down in the lab.

"The epicentre is out in Greenwich Village, around on the main avenue," Clint says, turning the tablet in his hands to show Steve. He sees the blipping circle coming out from Greenwich Avenue, and his eyes shift on the map. Bleecker Street isn't too far away from Greenwich Avenue, and Stephen Strange's impossible mansion is right fucking there.

" _Shit_ ," he whispers. "Call Loki!" He slides his hand beneath his desk, pulling out his helmet and his shield, and Clint stares at him.

"Uh," he says. "I… Can't?"

"What do you mean—" Clint is pointing at the hearing aid curled around his ear, and Steve winces.

"Right, right, sorry— Shit, where's my phone?"

 **June 18th, 2012  
3:09AM**

Loki's eyes open.

Freezing on the bed, he stays completely still, his tired eyes staring around the room. _Something_ had woken him, but what? He reaches out with his seiðr by instinct, throwing it out in a web of explorative threads, and beside him, Stephen glances up from the book in his hands – the book Loki had given him in exchange for his eyes, on the concept of magical sentience. It purrs quietly in his lap, pages fluttering as he strokes over their gilded edges.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Something's wrong," Loki says, pushing himself up to sit. _There_. The building itself isn't _truly_ here, buried as it is in a pocket dimension behind the façade that is placed upon the actual street, but outside, Loki can feel the tremors in the street below. In moments, his armour is bleeding onto his body, an icy blue that clings to his body and pads out the curves of his waist and hips.

"Oh, shit," Stephen says, and when Loki turns, Stephen is holding out his phone. A dozen messages are flashing over its screen, each denoting a missed call, and another text, and Loki hisses out a sound, grabbing the phone and calling Steven back as he rapidly descends the stairs without his feet so much as touching their wooden veneer, knowing that gravity and friction will only slow him down.

" _Loki!"_ Steven says as he answers the call, his tone irritable and his breathing heavy. In the background, Loki can hear explosions and the crumble of stone and roadway, and he speeds his way toward Stephen's front door – _Norns_ , why must the man's home be so obscenely labyrinthine? " _Where've you been?"_

"I was asleep, you heathen," Loki snaps back, "Do you want to tell me why the ground is tremoring verily beneath my feet?"

"You'll see once you're outside," Steve says darkly, and Loki glances at the phone, throwing a burst of seiðr from his hand to open the door before he reaches it, and then he is running out onto Bleecker Street, feeling the tarmac crumbling and quaking beneath his feet. He vanishes the phone, running upon the very air to bring himself above the buildings, and face to face with… Something.

It's some manner of gelatinous lifeform, massive and giving off a huge amount of heat, radiating outward. At least fifty feet high and burning _deepest red_ with magma, the monster is melting the very buildings it touches, and Loki can hear harsh screams being cut short. He scans the vicinity, and he sees the others: Stark is pouring water down from some great vat, but the stuff turns to steam before it even this the monster, coming away uselessly as vapour.

Rogers is barking orders as he, Barton and Romanov take civilians out of the way of the monster, rushing them away: Loki can hear him – he is speaking into his earpiece, one of which Loki is _meant_ to have, but alas… Does not.

This is what he gets for sleeping away from _home_ , it seems.

"Excuse me!" he calls over the chaos, the smoking buildings: the monster hears him not. Loki's web of seiðr is spread out on his every side – he can feel Stark, Rogers, Romanov, Barton… No Maximoff, the only one that would be _remotely_ useful in this situation, and Banner—

Banner is not to be found.

Loki feels a cold determination in his belly, and he steps closer to the monster. Its radiating heat is hot upon his freezing flesh, making him feel as if he is burning from the very inside, but he steps closer nonetheless, closer, " _Excuse me!"_

No response.

Well, there comes a time where manners do one more ill than good. Loki coils his magic within him, and when he speaks next, it is with the deepest power he can draw upon, billions upon billions of believers strengthening his tongue, and he growls, **"OI!"** The sound of it echoes across the entire city, heading outwards with the force of a physical shockwave, and after it, there is complete silence: the monster freezes, but so too do all the screaming, fleeing people. For a long, long second, all his frozen.

And then the monster's head (if head it can be called) swivels to look at Loki. It has one great eye, looking very bit like one of the magma caves he and Thor had traversed as a child, and its gaping maw is slick and bubbling with lava.

" **What, _pray_ , do you think you're doing?" **The god voice remains all-encompassing, spreading out from him in a whim, and each of the Avengers is frozen, staring at him. Loki looks at this monster, his gaze impassive, his elbow rested upon his palm, his hand loosely held up beside his head, magic coiling ready between the fingers. " **Don't you know this planet is under my protection?"**

What _poppycock_.

The monster roars, hot air hitting Loki like a solar flare, but he remains unflinching, even as his very flesh screams out its protestations. It _understands_ him, that much is clear, and Loki can feel its impact upon his web of magic, feel its taint.

" **What, you think I'd believe you don't _understand_ me? You are of demonic origin, are you not? A demon on the streets of Greenwich, why, how inappropriate."** That makes the monster shift slightly, a quake running through its molten form, and Loki thickens the weight of the ball of seiðr he is drawing together in his hand. " **Retreat, now, and I shall not see fit to end you."**

The monster surges, and Loki squares his shoulders as its great, magmatic maw comes to swallow him whole.

 **June 18th, 2012  
3:14AM**

Steve stares, uncomprehending, as the monster bites Loki out of the air, snatching him as if he's nothing, and he can hear the pound of his own heart, the rush of his own blood in his ears, as all comes silent. The monster is silent, its ugly mouth closed and its lips of hard rock melting into one another as it chuckles lowly, the sound like two mountains grinding against one another.

And then it freezes.

Its single eye widens, then squints tightly, its entire body stiff and still, and then—

"Jesus Christ," he hears Tony say over the comm, as a body bursts out of the top of the lava monster like a silver stone bursting from a volcano: rock and droplets of lava fly in every direction, but the figure… Isn't Loki. "Who the Hell is that?"

"Christ knows," Steve says, and he stares at the guy as— What, is that _sand?_ – seems to let him soar on the air: he's ten feet tall, nearly twice Loki's size, with broad shoulders, and he wears brown trousers of some thick and heavy sacking-cloth, his chest, but his body… The guy is made of glass. Actual, honest-to-God glass, and the light shines through him as he rides the wave of sand down, cleaving the lava monster in two with the sword that's almost as big as he is.

The monster is screaming, the sounds high and echoing, but even from here, Steve can feel its heat is beginning to withdraw, and he says, "Stark… Go back to pouring water down. Barton, see if you can take out another hydrant. Nat, keep getting the civilians out of the way. Banner, how're you?"

"Burnt," Banner mutters. His voice is laboured.

Steve stares as the stranger makes quick work of the monster, cutting him down to size with that huge sword that seems to be made of black stone, and it takes—

God. It takes _minutes_.

They'd made barely a dent in the thing, but this guy is just shredding him, and as he cuts each piece apart, they grow cold, dropping to the ground in rubble and black stone. The thing is half the size, then a quarter, then it's barely the size of a dog, squealing and shrieking as the glass man walks toward it.

His sword at his hip, trailing a sharp line through the cracked tarmac of what is left of the Greenwich Avenue road, he grabs the monster, his hand right _inside_ its heat, and Steve wonders what temperatures the guy could possibly be made to withstand.

The only reason there are so few people dead right now is because of how slowly lava moves.

The glass man holds the monster in his mighty hand, and as Steve steps forward, he can hear the demon – that's what Loki had called it, right? – squeaks and yells and cries. When the glass man clenches his fist, it turns to dust and sand upon the ground.

"Steven," the glass man says, turning his head. Barely ten feet away from one another, now, Steve can see the guy's face: his eyes are like sandstorms, a mess of darkness and swirling colour amidst the transparent crystal of the rest of his face, and his tongue is a literal _spark_ , burning in his mouth.

"Who the Hell are you?" Steve demands, taking a step closer, his shield gripped in his hand. The man stares at him, impassive.

"I am Geren of the Highwastes," he says. His voice is like a thousand winds, distant and howling, and Steve shivers to hear it.

"Where's Loki?"

"Ah," Geren says, lowly. A small smile quirks his glassy lips. "You have not yet realised."

"Realised what?"

"You are Steven Rogers and Captain America alike, are you not? Both are _you_ , and yet they remain indelibly separate." Steve's gaze trails from Geren's glassy head, to the great horns that come out from either side, down to his smooth, transparent chest, to the sacking clinging to his legs, to the obsidian sword at his side.

"You're… Loki?"

"No," Geren says. "I am Geren. Loki is me."

"Bring Loki back," Steve says, sharply, the order plain. " _Now_." There is a moment of hesitation. Geren's impassive expression, so devoid of feeling, is frozen for a second, and Steve feels a burst of fear in his chest – what, does this version of Loki _not_ have to obey his orders? If that's the case—

But then Loki is right there, wearing his blue armour, his hair loose around his head. He doesn't wear the helmet any more, and Steve can't help but wonder why.

"We mustn't stand here, speaking casually," Loki says. "We must help rebuild, bring people to the hospitals."

"Here," Steve says, and he presses a small, black bud into Loki's hand – his comm connection, left in Avengers Tower. Loki nods his head, nods his understanding, and he takes to the air once more. For a long second, Steve stares after him, thinking of the way the monster had just crumbled in his palm…

But no, Loki is right.

People still need their help.

 **June 18th, 2012  
1:18PM**

The ice cream is organic, and it's more fruit than cream, with barely any sugar in it at all, which is maybe why Loki had agreed to try it. What he _wouldn't_ agree to was to having the thing on a cone like everyone else, so he holds it in his little glass bowl, delicately eating it with a spoon, not getting _any_ of the stuff on his face.

"You like it?" Tony asks.

"It's very cold," Loki says approvingly.

"I think that means yes," Nat says, and Loki smiles to himself, taking another bite of the stuff and swallowing it. Does it even melt in his mouth, Tony wonders? He doubts it. The guy is so cold, it probably just freezes _more_.

"Is this truly your tradition?" Loki asks, his gaze passing about the table. "You save the city, and then take time for lunch?"

"This isn't lunch," Tony says. "This is a snack. We'll get lunch after." Loki frowns at him, his thin lips twisting into the expression, and he tilts his head slightly to the side. The ice cream he'd gotten is… Weird. Pineapple, coconut and _rum_ – not exactly a flavour combination Tony'd go for, but Loki seems to like it just fine.

Steve thunks heavily into the seat beside him, and Tony turns to look at him. "You sure he's gonna be okay?" he asks Loki, and Tony glances from Steve to the other man. Loki slowly nods his head.

"The seiðr is more than his body is accustomed to, but it shall not harm him," he says quietly. "Doctor Banner will merely need to sleep for twelve hours or so, and he shall wake up quite healed. To repair all of the damage at once would merely place his body under undue stress, yet more than he has already suffered. The Hulk can withstand only so much." Loki reaches up, drawing his hand through his thick hair, and he looks tired.

"You didn't answer your phone," Steve says.

"I must have placed it on silent by mistake," Loki murmurs. "Do forgive me – I had no idea. It won't happen again." He seems to be genuine about it, and if Steve was annoyed, he backs down now, his expression quietly understanding. Loki looks _guilty_ , and he takes the last scoop of his ice cream into his mouth, his throat shifting as he swallows, and then he sets the glass bowl down on the table. "You have questions, I imagine."

"Mr Glass Ass was a bit of a surprise, yeah," Tony says, taking a healthy lick of his chocolate swirl, and Loki interlocks his fingers, leaning forward and setting his elbows upon his knees. He seems quietly thoughtful, his eyes far away for a long few seconds.

"I… Have not been entirely honest as to who I am," he says, after an extended pause. "I am not, strictly speaking, Loki of Asgard. Or, more accurately, I am not _only_ him. The explanation I used for Steven some hours ago was in the different between Captain America and Steve Rogers: each distinct, and discrete from one another. Each are _him_ , but the two identities are very different." Loki taps his well-manicured fingers upon the table, his lips shifting as he tastes whatever words he wants to say next. Tony glances to Clint and Nat, who are watching in silence, and to Steve, whose expression is set. "I am worshiped on twenty-seven planets. Overall, my worship extends to… I don't know. Perhaps thirty or forty billion believers. It is hardly within my power to count them individually. But I am not worshiped on each of those planets as _Loki_ , son of Odin. That title serves me only here, upon Midgard, as it does in the Nine Realms."

"You have other names," Steve says, slowly. "Other identities."

"Precisely," Loki agrees. "On Nakom, I am Geren of the Highwastes. On Koom, I am Knightsin, the Goddess of the Silver Blades. Across the Fon System, I am known by a handful of names, but most of all as F'yan, the God of Truth, and Storytelling. Each of these identities feels as real to me as that of Loki. I might tell you the primary events of my entire life, the relationships I have with the councils of individual gods, the memories that come with the title… But Loki is my prime self, if you will."

"What does that mean?" Nat asks, slowly. She narrows her eyes slightly as she looks at Loki, obviously trying to puzzle him out. "They _feel_ as real to you? Does that mean they aren't real?"

"They are real," Loki says. "Godhood… It is a complex thing to explain. One's divinity is based on the belief one is imbued with: the devotion, the worship, adds to my identity as a figure, but it is ever changing. Simultaneously, for example, I know that I never met with a Jötunn named Skadi, and yet I remember my quest to make her laugh, that she might forgive me for the murder of her father. The memory is built by the force of my believers alone. It is simultaneously real, and ethereal. An echo from another reality." Tony takes a small bite of his cone, chewing it slowly. That's… Pretty damned wild.

"How many?" Steve asks. "How many people are you?"

"How many _people_? Dozens," Loki says. "I have lived as many men and women. Tutors, academics, millers, hunters, artists, tailors—"

"Soldiers?" Steve breaks in. It stops Loki in his tracks.

"No," he says. "Geren is the only soldier among me." God, that's freaky. He doesn't know why it's so weird, but hearing Loki use "me" in the _plural_ is… Creepy. But Tony had heard Loki talking to Sam about his favourite Bible story – the Gerasene demoniac. _My name is Legion, for we are many_.

Jesus.

"As for gods," Loki says, stroking his fingers over his palms. "I am worshiped under fifteen identities."

"List them," Steve says.

"No," Loki says. Steve stares at him, for a long second.

"You wanna try that again?" he says, lowly, and Loki's lips twitch in irritation, almost showing a _snarl_.

"I will write them down for you," Loki says. "There's no sense in me listing them all simply to write them down la—"

"List them," Steve says, harshly. "Now." Tony glances at him, and he can see Steve's jaw is set, his blue eyes a swirl of deep thought and emotion, and he wonders why precisely he's so _angry_ all of a sudden.

"F'yan. Motlordraugr, a mythic priest of funeral rites. Knightsin. Ixtar, a trickster spirit. Chaur, a great spider – Goddess of Motherhood, and— And Grief. Geren. K'io K'or'ar'lee – a patron of young mothers. Vespice, a great serpent that follows the river of the Lei Nebula. Aspling, the Storyteller, youngest of 1000 brothers. Ok, Delitti and Guril Yair, each worshiped on areas of Jafara. Then Wexxo Gast – the God of Passing Time, and finally, Saliso, the Skywalker of Rigel IV. And Loki. Me."

"Aren't they _all_ you?" Tony asks, and Loki's brows furrow, hesitation showing on his face.

"I know it makes you uncomfortable," he says, in barely more than a whisper. "It doesn't seem natural, for somebody to be _more than one_ person. Each of you would rather believe that they are merely masks I wear, false identities, characters that I play. The idea that all of them should equally be _myself_ is unnerving to the very essence of your humanity." A beat passes. "Tell me I'm wrong, if you feel that I am." The four of them sit in silence, glancing at one another before each of them turns back to Loki, and Tony is uncomfortable with how _easily_ Loki reads them, even while he remains kind of a mystery. Or… Mysteries.

"You're not wrong," Tony murmurs quietly. "It's a little creepy. But… It's you, Loki. It's no creepy than your pretty little face." Loki's lips twitch into a small smile, and he turns his gaze away from Tony, chuckling softly. It's the right thing to say, he thinks, because Loki relaxes slightly.

Steve is quiet. Tony looks at him, his gaze flitting over Steve's face, but Steve doesn't look angry any more. He looks tired, and Tony watches him as he says quietly, "The sand thing. You didn't write that down in your file."

"No," Loki says quietly. "I didn't expect to be anybody other than Loki in my time upon this planet: subsequently, I spoke only on my _own_ skills, and not on those of my other selves."

"Are they all you, or not?" Steve asks, his tone slick. Loki looks down at the ground. "I thought so."

"It wasn't an _intentional_ deception," Loki argues, tone bitter. "They are and they aren't me. I don't think of it as a cut-and-dry issue. You asked me for my skills, I laid them out upon the page. I filled a binder!"

"Fill fourteen more." Steve's tone is stern and quiet and serious, and he looks directly at Loki. He doesn't look at Clint, who is desperately focusing on his ice cream and seems to have shoved his hearing aids into his pocket, or at Nat, whose expression is a complete mask. What does Tony's own expression look like, he wonders? Something breaks in Loki's face, and Tony doesn't think he's imagining the shame on his face, the genuine upset.

"Yes, Captain," Loki says quietly, obediently, all but _slumping_ in his seat. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Steve says quietly. "I'm not— Loki. It's not your fault. It's okay. But I need this stuff on the record." Loki bites his lower lip, worrying the skin there, and he swallows, his throat shifting as he does so. Loki gives a very slow nod of his head, and Steve says, quietly, "Why'd you make the shift?"

"I didn't mean to," Loki admits. "I'm a being of _ice_ , Steven. I would have burnt to a cinder if I had remained in the form I had been – the shift was sudden, unconscious. It was an instinctive, self-protective measure."

"It happened before?" Steve asks, quietly.

"No," Loki murmurs. "But then, a demon of magma has never swallowed me into the incandescent heat of its stomach before." Tony does his best to stop himself from snorting, and Loki stares down at his hands, tracing the lines of his own tendons and knuckles. "It was the happenstance of a moment. It won't happen again."

"Who is he?" Nat asks. Her eyes are full of intrigue, leaning in closer as she keeps her gaze on Loki's face. It makes the most sense to her, Tony guesses, out of the rest of them. Natasha has worn lots of identities, even if she can't change the skin she wears like Loki can.

"Geren of the Highwastes," Loki whispers. His tone changes, somewhat, and Tony feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest as he watches him, rapt. Loki's hands come up, and magic begins to burst and spark between his palms, showing a desert expanse like a hologram over the table between them, and Tony glances around, just to see if anyone else in the little café is looking their way, but nobody seems to care. Sands slide over the desert's length, swirling and whistling in the wind, and a figure begins to walk through the sands.

He walks slowly, his broad shoulders bent toward the hiss of the sand, and at his side his greatsword trails through the sand behind him, leaving a line in the red sand's surface. He wears a thick, brown cloak, just like the trousers Loki – Geren – had worn earlier. "Once a shoulder, Geren now walks the Highwastes: the great desert across the Southern Pole of Nakom. Ever moving, ever walking. Nobody knows where his final destination will be. It is said that when the planet was yet morphing, yet becoming its own, the sun burned so very hot that the shifting sands of the desert were heated to glass, and so Geren came into being: his glowing tongue hosts the final spark of that old and ancient sun, and he is made of the finest glass there is." The figure in the desert pushes the hood back from his head, and Tony sees the tiny flame inside his transparent face, glowing where his tongue should be. He looks like he's made of pure, liquid crystal, his face and shoulders moving smoothly as he walks. "Lost travellers in the deserts of Nakom pray for Geren to take mercy on them: they pray for his line in the sand, and when that line appears, they follow it to their salvation."

The sands fade away, and Loki's hands are bare once more.

"How did that end up being you?" Tony asks, quietly.

"My two sons, Narfi and Valí, were murdered. Sigyn and I separated. I could not bear to be upon Asgard. It was one thing to be reviled, to be hated – it was another indeed to be pitied as I walked the streets of Asgard, as if those very people had not done worse to me in my time. I couldn't stand it. So I left. I had done so before, left Asgard behind and gone far, far abreast from the planet, many times. For half a century at a time, sometimes, I would abandon the Æsir and their false ways. This time, I needed… Solace, and solitude. I needed a place to meditate, but I could not stand to be still."

Tony glances to Steve, and he sees that the other man is utterly hypnotised, his gaze focused on the other man's face. For all the strictness Tony just saw, Steve looks at Loki as if he's the most beautiful he's ever seen, as if he's a statue, as if he's the greatest wonder of the world. There's something tragic about that.

"So I walked the Highwastes from end to end. The deserts stretch thousands upon thousands of miles, and so I walked them. When I crossed ways with other travellers, I would heal their ills, offer them directions. For thousands of years, I had been known as a storyteller, but I… I lacked the spirit for such things. I listened, instead. Offered counsel, if I was asked for it. Over time, as years went by, I became almost legendary. Why would a man walk from end of the desert to the other, eating nothing, drinking nothing? How could he do it? And so was born the divinity. The belief." Loki leans back into his seat, drawing his palm over his chin and his lips, and when he quietly sighs, Tony doesn't think he imagines the soft, icy _whoosh_ of frost upon the air.

"So it's kind of like a chicken and egg thing," Nat says. "The believer and the believed in."

"Not exactly," Loki says. "It is both at once. And I am only ever a minor god, never a greater god, a creator. They follow different rules entirely, and I would never presume to believe that my existence is at all similar to that concept of, say, your Christian god, which is— Different indeed. I don't mean to imply blasphemy in my existence alone." It's weird. When Loki had come down back in May, he'd been as sarcastic and biting as all Hell, but Loki's… Respectful. _Weirdly_ respectful. As if it's the only thing he knows how to do. Tony guesses that's where the whole _Mr, Doctor, Captain_ thing came from in the first place, and the respect for religion… It's not exactly expected.

"Did it hurt you?" Steve asks in a very low tone, "Being him?"

"No," Loki murmurs, shaking his head. "No, no. Geren… He feels no pain. No emotion, really. He's quietly compassionate, and that is all. I walked the Highwastes for ninety-four years. It shaved away the worst parts of grief."

"Ninety-four _years?"_ Tony repeats, staring at him. "Just… Walking up and down?"

"Just walking up and down," Loki confirms. "But after the death of Angrboða, I did something similar. I became a great rock, on the top of the mountain nearest to the city of Asgard, and I allowed myself to be washed down the mountainside with the flow of the river. Week by week, I was made smoother. Purified. I ended as a smooth pebble on the bed of the great lake."

"The sands were the same," Steve murmurs quietly. "Scraped the layers away."

"Yes," Loki agrees, slowly. "Until I was smooth as glass. And now that grief is a part of me, now, elevated to a singular voice, a face, an identity."

"Why a soldier?" Nat asks. Clint is wiping his face with a napkin, and Tony wonders if Nat'll explain the whole thing to him later, or if he's just happier not knowing. Who's to say?

"I don't know," Loki murmurs. "It was a staff, when I started, you know. I was a healer, a sage: I carried a staff loosely in my hand, trailing it in the ground behind me – I enjoyed the sensation of parting the sand beneath its touch, feeling its weight against my palm. Over time, it was believed that I carried a sword, and then, that I was a warrior in the last great war, some fifteen hundred years ago. And so a sword I had." Loki stands, slowly. "If you will excuse me – get lunch without me. I want to go back to Bleecker Street for an hour or so: I shall meet you again at the Tower. There is paperwork to complete, I imagine?"

"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "Damage reports, stuff like that." Tony half-expects him to tell Loki he can't go, that he needs to stick around, but he doesn't, and Loki gives him a small, polite bow of his head before he walks away.

"The thing he did… With that voice," Clint says. Even as he speaks, he is putting his hearing aids back in, and he wrinkles his nose slightly. "The… The big voice. The one that echoed."

"What about it?" Tony asks.

"I could hear it," Clint says. "Hear it in my _chest_."

"It was pretty scary," Steve murmurs, lowly. "He's… Pretty powerful. More powerful than I remember, sometimes."

"Ain't that the truth?" Tony says. For a long few moments, they sit in silence. Then, they get up to head in the direction of lunch.

 **June 18th, 2012  
1:42PM**

Stephen opens the door wearing a tunic of black, and he smiles as he sees Loki. "How did—" Stephen's face _cracks_ to the side as Loki brings the back of his hand hard across it, so hard that the very bone lets out its protestation, and Stephen lets out a low moan of pain, his scarred hand going to his cheek.

"If you ever tamper with my phone again," Loki says, lowly, "I will end you." Stephen does not attempt to retaliate, but nor does he look _especially_ guilty.

"You were asleep," he murmurs. "There was no sense in waking you up."

"That isn't your call to make," Loki says, his tone firm and unerring. "You wished to keep me cooling your bed – don't you pretend to me it was to do with letting me _sleep_ , and that false little act, as if you hadn't been the one to silence my phone… You do that again, and I'll flatten this little home of yours to dust."

"You're beautiful when you're angry," Stephen says.

Loki is already walking away.

 **June 18th, 2012  
4:58PM**

Loki presses his forehead to Thor's, feeling the warmth of his brother's skin as they embrace in a tight, tight hug. Thor is smiling, softly, and he cups the sides of Loki's jaw – keeping his hands carefully away from Loki's neck, Loki realises. "So cold," Thor murmurs. "So different from the warm little brother I once had."

"More truthful now," Loki replies, softly. "No longer do I need my brother to come and find me in my errant ways, to drag me home."

"I never dragged you," Thor says. "Merely told you when it was time." Loki smiles, patting his brother's cheek.

"I wish it was time now," Loki whispers, and he sees Thor's expression crumble, sees Thor's eyes suddenly wet. Thor holds Loki tight to him, his coldness be damned, and he feels Thor press his lips to his hair and his head, exhaling softly against his scalp.

"I'm sorry, brother," Thor murmurs, his broad hand rubbing against Loki's back. "I can't do that."

"I know," Loki replies. "I know. Thor… You know that I love you?"

"Of course, as I you," Thor assures him, softly. Loki wishes he was stronger than he was, wishes he could ask his brother to stay longer, but… For his benefit? He cannot ask Thor to give up his title of prince regent, simply because Loki misses his brother. Simply because Loki feels fractured, and alone. "I shall write you every week."

"I shall do the same," Loki promises, pressing a kiss to Thor's cheek. "Fare thee well, brother."

"The same to thee, brother," Thor replies, and they break apart.

 **June 18th, 2012  
5:04PM**

 _Diary Entry, June 18th, 2012_

 _The magic Odin has bound me in is not as once I thought. I had quite pushed away the thoughts of my other selves from my mind, avoiding that deep understanding of the multiplicity of myself. It is not something I often dwell on: I like to inhabit one identity at once, and slip from one to the other, but…_

 _Steven Rogers gave me an order as Geren of the Highwastes, and I felt the seiðr within me hesitate._

 _And yet today, I refused an order, and found it was possible, even as myself, as Loki. Something is afoot here – something has changed in the expanse of my magic. I must analyse it, study it…_

 _Odin has never been a sorcerer of my own skill. Obviously, he has left a loop untied, a stitch unfinished in the spell itself. How to better define the gap in my prison wall? I know not. I know not yet what precisely it is, and yet I have no doubt it will come to me._

 _So shall these bonds unravel._


	15. Brought To Justice 15

**June 19th, 2012  
8:05AM**

 _Don't hurt yourself._ That's a fairly important rule.

Staring down at his arm, Loki takes the blade to the skin. Bent over like this, his glasses want to slide down his nose, but he has forced the arms to bend slightly to keep them in place. He feels his seiðr _resist_ him, attempting to prevent him from doing so, but Loki presses the blade just _slightly_ harder, seeing the way lilac blood wells to the surface and then bursts out from beneath the skin, bleeding in a small trickle over the silver of the dagger.

His magic is burning within him, screaming its protestation, but something has changed: no longer does his magic hold him back _entirely_ from harming himself, or indeed, from resisting any order.

Loki sets the blade onto his desk, dragging magic over the flesh and watching the flesh knit itself together once more. What is different? Since the night previous, Loki has taken on every one of his other divine forms, has hopped between one dimensional rift to another to use their respective powers, feel their respective selves, and yet—

Naught occurs.

Naughty has changed. His seiðr resists his disobedience, but no less than it had yesterday, when he had refused an order of Steven's to his face.

A knock sounds at the door, glances up from his desk, ensuring all traces of his blood and healed wound are gone before he says, "Come in!" The door opens inward, and Loki watches Steven as he enters, takes in his broad shoulders, his stiff, soldier-like bearing: he wears his uniform, the leather creaking softly as he moves. Loki flicks his wrist, and a stack of fourteen neatly labelled, plastic folders take to the air. Steven stares at them, but he doesn't take them from the air, instead pushing the door closed behind him.

"We need to have a talk," he says seriously. Loki does not show his uncertainty, and instead he turns in his seat, looking at the other man head-on. The folders settle themselves in a perfectly balanced pile on the side of his desk, ready for Steven to take when he is ready: the man himself slowly seats himself on the edge of Loki's bed. "You were a real hero yesterday. You know that?"

Loki frowns. Steven sighs, drawing a hand over his jaw, and he keeps his gaze on Loki, his eyes deep with some emotion Loki cannot quite parse, cannot quite work out the meaning of.

"Loki… You have any idea how many people you saved?"

"The death toll was forty-nine," he mutters quietly.

"Out of _thousands_ ," Steven says. His hands grasp for Loki's, and Loki feels their warmth in his own, feels Steven's fingers brush hot against the backs of his hands, the thumbs playing over his palms. Loki has spared no thought at all to the net _benefits_ of their attack on the creature, and Loki had thought that once he had submitted his damage report (emailed promptly to Anthony Stark, CC; Steven Rogers, Nicholas Fury, at some minutes past four that morning) that life would move on. "Loki, none of us is… Perfect. But the whole point is that we save who we can. You get that, right?"

"Of course," Loki says: his magic burns him. "That is to say… Surely the _point_ is to have no deaths at all?"

"In an ideal world," Steven allows. "But— What was it you said before? If wishes were horses, the whole world would ride?" Loki twists his mouth. Perhaps such things might be true for the _Avengers_ , but if Loki is truly a god, no one ought die at all in the city of New York, not from attacks like these. And yet—

Loki is hardly a god for _these_ people. Why should he want to save them? They are puny, useless Midgardians, valueless to anyone but themselves.

"They want us to come into the hospital," Steven says. "Say hi to some of the survivors. You need to get anything done, or are you ready to go?"

"Must I come?"

"Yes," Steven says. "You must." His lips quirk into a little smile. "What, you don't want to meet the people you saved? They're gonna be grateful." What does that mean, in the scheme of things? _Gratitude_? Loki was doing as he was told.

"Very well," Loki says quietly, and he moves to stand. First, he vanishes the spectacles, replacing them with a magical lens that clings tight to his eyes. His shirt and trousers give way to his suit of soft, blue leather, complete with its black and silver accents, and seemingly without realising, Steven trails a hand down his chest. "What?"

"It's just— So _bright_ , compared to the green you wore before. Reminds me of Quicksilver's old suits." Loki reaches up, tying his hair into a loose bun, and Steven looks at him for a long few moments, examining his face, as if on the verge of saying something crucial.

He says nothing, in the end.

 **June 19th, 2012  
11:48AM**

On the drive to the hospital, Loki fidgets in his seat the whole damned time. Bounces his knee in one place, drums his fingers against his thigh, bites down on his lip, lets it pop out from under his teeth, bites down on it again… Just a fucking _ball_ of a frenetic energy. Tony keeps an eye on him, even as everyone else politely decides to ignore it.

Guy is weird. They all know that.

But it's just a hospital visit. Say hi to the people who're healing up, take pictures with the kids on the paediatrics ward, generally spread a little joy to people who're having a hard time at the moment – it's standard stuff, a mix of _good deeds_ and good PR, and Tony's done this shit a dozen times, but…

Loki hasn't. And Tony? Tony's ready to hold his hand.

But as soon as the limousine door opens, it's like there's a change in Loki, like some liquid calm slides over his skin. He exhales, slowly, and he lifts his head, chin high, expression demure, but kind; polite, but distant.

Sometimes, Tony forgets exactly what he _was_ to Asgard, and to Asgard, he was a prince.

They split into two groups: Steve leads Nat and Clint, and Tony, Loki and Bruce stick together. But really? Really, it's Tony and Bruce doing one thing, and Loki doing another. Tony could hang after Loki if he really needed it, stick to the guy's side, but Bruce is shy and awkward around strangers, and gets stumped by emotional questions: Loki can do his own thing.

Hospitals are… Weird. They take selfies, and people smile for them despite the pain they're in; they sign casts, and scraps of paper, and laptop cases; they talk to people, listen to their stories. It's not easy, necessarily. It's not comfortable.

But it feels good, to be able to make people so happy, just by—

Just by being there.

Tony glances across the room, to Loki. He is seated beside an old man, and the old man's hand is clasped in Loki's own: he has thick, white hair that curls and tangles around his shoulders, and a beard that is growing wispy with his age, liver spots across his face. Bruce is glancing at the guy's medical chart – he just can't help it, Tony guesses – and Loki is murmuring softly to him.

"What's he in for?" Tony asks as Bruce comes over to him, and Bruce sighs, taking the bottle of water Tony hands to him and taking a swig.

"Cancer," he says quietly. "He's in his nineties, won't take chemo. So he's just, you know. Riding it out." Loki laughs, and for a few seconds, he looks very young indeed, like he's barely out of his teens. The old man still looks old. When Loki stands, he gives the guy a deep bow, the very image of aristocracy, and the guy returns it with a nod of his head. Lying back on his pillow, Tony watches his face as Loki walks away – the guy has a small ghost of a smile on his face.

"Which ward now?" Loki asks as he steps out into the corridor, and Tony clucks his tongue.

"Easy, big guy – we've still got the whole day left. We're gonna take a break and get something to eat."

"I would rather do it all at once," Loki murmurs quietly, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah, well, too bad," Tony says, "the rest of us are only human. C'mon. There's a sushi place across the street, all organic." He sees the hesitation in Loki's face, more of that anxiety he'd seen earlier, but then Loki gives a small nod of his head, and relents. "Wonder what Wanda's doing right now."

"Arguing with her siblings, I should imagine," Loki says quietly. "Pietro says they are rebuilding together. The three of them." There is something faraway in Loki's expression, something distant, and Tony touches his shoulder. Even through the soft leather of the armour Loki's begun to wear, he can feel how cold Loki is, and Loki glances back at him, the cloudy stare in his eyes fading away.

"You okay?"

"Yes," Loki says, "Merely— A passing thought, snagging in my mind. A if, for a moment…" He trails off, and Tony frowns deeper, glancing to Bruce, but Bruce seems as confused and concerned as he is. "An echo of something other. Forgive me, it is nothing."

"Something other?" Bruce asks, slowly. "Like a past life?"

"Something like that," Loki agrees, nodding his head. "A brother I never had, and yet I remember him so clearly sometimes. He had so bright a smile." He moves a little more quickly down the stairs, leading the way out of the hospital as his leather armour turns to a blue suit, and Tony runs a hand through his hair as he pushes his sunglasses onto his nose. There are no press outside the hospital – a few are scheduled to come later in the afternoon, but not yet – so the three of them move easily out into the street, and the trek over to the restaurant is easy. Steve, Nat and Clint are already there, Clint and Steve seated at a table as Nat speaks in easy Japanese to a pretty girl with butterfly barrettes in her hair.

Loki slides easily to seat himself next to Steve, and Tony watches as Steve nudges him with his shoulder, the movement easy, affectionate. Loki replies with a small, curt nod, and Tony glances down at his phone.

 **Tony Stark, 12:09PM  
loki seeming weird 2 u atm? he seems super dwn**

 **P. Maximoff, 12:09PM  
Perhaps mildly more anxious than ordinary. He has much on his mind as of late, but I have not seen him since the X-Factor took off for Philadelphia. Is he well?**

 **Tony Stark, 12:10PM  
yh hes fine I think. jew.**

 **P. Maximoff, 12:10PM  
… Jew?**

 **Tony Stark, 12:10PM  
THAT WAS AUTOCORRECT AND U KNO IT**

 **Tony Stark, 12:10PM  
JW MEANS JUST WONDERING**

 **Tony Stark, 12:10PM  
I WASNT CALLING U A JEW**

 **P. Maximoff, 12:10PM  
If it helps things at all, I am indeed a Jew, but it's more appropriate to refer to me as a Jewish man in this modern world. L.O.L.**

God, Pietro Maximoff is the most insufferable guy in the world. Won't even type _LOL_ – has to put in the dots, just to make it clear it's an acronym.

 **Tony Stark, 12:11PM  
im never texting u again**

 **P. Maximoff, 12:11PM  
Ha.**

 **P. Maximoff, 12:11PM  
Goy.**

"Are you texting Pietro anti-Semitic slurs?" Loki asks mildly as Tony sits down at the table, and Tony groans, putting his face in his hands. Of _course_ Pietro has texted Loki that already, of course he has.

"I'm not an anti-Semite," Tony mutters. "Pour me some water." Loki chuckles, but he obeys all the same, taking up the jug and pouring Tony a glass. "I fucking hate Autocorrect. I'm gonna get it banned. And if it helps—" Tony turns his screen to show Loki, and Loki laughs. The good thing – it seems to take away a little of his anxiety, and God, Tony really needs to get to the bottom of that.

"Goy?" Clint repeats, peering at the screen. "What's that?"

"It's Hebrew for gentile," Steve says, taking up his and Clint's menus and passing them to Loki and Tony. Tony glances over the menu, then leans back in his seat, searching out the specials board.

"You speak Hebrew?" Loki asks.

"Nah. Just some Yiddish. There were a lot of Ashkenazim around us growing up." Steve looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't, instead taking a slow sip of his water. Tony glances to Loki, who is studying the menu as if it is something completely new to him, and, in fairness, he's pretty sure it is. He doesn't think they've got the guy to sample Japanese food yet.

"There's a bento box on the specials," Tony murmurs in his ear. "If you wanna try a little of everything." Loki follows Tony's gaze to the specials board, and then he shrugs, handing his menu to Bruce as the guy sits down.

"Their bathroom's wild," Bruce mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose as he stares at the menu. "They've got like, mosaic pandas on the wall. Really cool." Tony grins, setting his menu aside.

"You okay?" he asks quietly to Loki.

"Must you insist on asking me that?"

"You're just so _antsy_ ," Tony replies. "What, you that scared of hospitals?"

"I'm not scared of hospitals."

"Then what's your deal?"

"Welcome to Tomodachi! Can I take your orders?" Tony leans away from Loki, and he zones out as they all give their orders for drink and food: Loki orders the vegetarian bento, because, _of course he does_ , and Tony taps his ring against the table as the waitress moves away – it's a bad habit, he knows, but he can't quite shake it.

"Smoke break?" he asks Loki. Loki hesitates.

"I don't smoke," he murmurs.

"Nor do I," Tony replies. Loki stands.

They sit out in the courtyard around the back of the restaurant, where a tall brick wall leaves a place for people to sit outside without the blare of cars zooming past them, and Tony watches as Loki perches on one of the stone benches, looking every bit as if he's a bird in a blue suit. Loki continues to bounce his knee slightly, until he says, finally, "I don't see the point of this. These people are ill, dying."

"We comfort them," Tony says simply. "It's— It's about giving people a pick-me-up. Talk to the people who got hurt, show 'em we're accessible. Normal people, like them."

"I'm not," Loki points out.

"We're pretending you are." There's something still stiff in Loki's form, something still lingering.

"They're dying. Their lives are so short."

"Yeah," Tony agrees. Loki runs his hand through his hair, a few of the locks having come undone from the manbun he has going on. A strand catches on the bar through his ear, and he thoughtlessly tugs it free.

"Such ills," he murmurs quietly. "And yet naught we have upon Asgard. Cancers each eliminated. Blood sicknesses rare. Iðunn's orchards and the magicks in the waters, each heal such ailments. Asgard has no hospitals." Oh. Right. Tony moves forward, slowly, and he sits down beside Loki on the bench, feeling the coldness that radiates from the other man.

"You homesick?" he asks.

"Not exactly." Loki sighs, his marble features distant. "I always hated Asgard – thus why I spent so much time upon the winds. Asgard hated me in kind. But Midgard is so different, and I dislike to be chained to one place only, one planet. It feels most unnatural. And I am not well-made for heroism."

"You seem pretty good at it to me," Tony murmurs. "Think maybe you're being too much of a perfectionist here, man."

"My first therapy appointment is tomorrow," Loki says.

"You excited?"

"No."

"You scared?"

"Invariably."

"You'll be fine." Loki nods, minutely. "You ready to go back in?" Loki nods again.

 **June 19th, 2012  
05:14PM**

"Where's Loki?" Steve asks. Bruce and Tony share a glance.

"In the car," Tony says. They stand in the middle of the paediatric ward, and Steve feels the disappointment heavy inside him. "Steve, it's not— He hasn't just bailed 'cause he's lazy."

"He was pretty upset," Bruce murmurs. He's looking down at his hands, which are shifting nervously, and then he looks up to meet Steve's face. "Steve… He's pretty wrecked." Steve sighs, running his hand through his hair. "Dying kids…"

"Yeah," Steve murmurs quietly. "Yeah, I know." Taking the service exit and coming out by the ambulances, he takes up to Tony's limo, which is parked out of the way, and he opens the door, slipping inside. Loki is sat on the limousine's floor, his head between his legs, his fingers laced behind his head. He is breathing slowly, inhaling once, exhaling once, and then repeating the cycle.

Steve had made fun of him the first time he'd seen Loki in this position, braced like his plane's about to go down and he's trying to keep his teeth in place, but it's… It's sad. It's _pathetic_ , seeing him like this.

"Hey," Steve says softly. Loki doesn't move. Steve moves into the limousine, and he leans down, touching his hand to Loki's back, and Loki flinches under the touch. "It's okay. It's okay." Loki leans back on his heels, and Steve sees his cheeks are tracked with tears, and Steve lets out low, soothing sounds. "It's okay, Loki."

Loki doesn't say anything. He breathes in, the inhalation hitching in his throat. Steve wonders if he's going to talk about it, if he's gonna say exactly what the deal is, but— He knows what the deal is. A guy with two dead children starts crying after finishing a round of selfies and visits on a paediatric cancer ward. Anyone would know what the deal was.

"You made those kids happy," Steve murmurs quietly. "Made their life a little happier."

"It won't stop them dying."

"No," Steve agrees, "but that's not the point."

"You keep saying that," Loki whispers. His voice is hoarse from crying, and Steve wonders how long he's been out here – twenty minutes? Half an hour? An hour? "When will it feel true, I wonder?"

"When you start feeling younger, I guess." Loki lets out a short, bitter laugh.

"Never, then." They sit in silence for half an hour, until Steve gets the text for them to all go talk to the press. Loki walks with him, and when the journalists shout questions at him, Loki ignores every single one.

 **June 20th, 2012  
10:01AM**

Sven Nielsen is familiar to him. Loki has met him before, he is certain, and yet they have not met – they have not _ever_ met. And yet… Loki stands in the middle of Sven Nielsen's office, which takes up the bulk of an isolated cabin. A fire crackles warmly in the hearth, although it isn't so cold at all, and the room is decorated traditionally, with woven rugs and woollen blankets over the chairs and couches. Sven Nielsen has a handmade desk, but he does not stand behind it: he sits back in an armchair beside the fire, looking more like a grandfather ready to tell stories than a counsellor.

"You think we have met before," Sven says, quietly. He is an old man, with a crop of silver hair and a bristled beard of salt and pepper marks, and he wears crescent-shaped glasses on his nose. His eyes are a frothy sea-green. "We have not."

"We have," Loki says. "In another life." He stares at Sven, feeling the vague impact in the back of his mind. Stephen Strange had acted as if it was so _odd_ when the Grandmaster had so easily referenced another life, and yet here Loki feels the string of a life that is entwined with his own, somewhere else. "You have a son. Bjørn." If Sven is surprised, he shows it not.

"Yes," he agrees.

"You never grew a beard before," Loki says. "Your wife, she hated beards." He does not know how he knows. These are the only facts that come to him, scant and separate from anything valuable, and yet he voices them anyway. Sometimes, the walls between one universe and another, become so thin, and things bleed through.

"Yes," he agrees. His hand reaches up, and he drags his palm through the beard, then shrugs his shoulders. "We are not here to talk about my son, or my wife. Please, Loki: sit down." Loki slides down onto the sofa closest to the other man, and he leans back against the plush fabric, feeling the slightly scratchy touch of the wool beneath his skin. "We have introduced ourselves to one another, but let us lay out some ground rules. Here, in my office, you are free to discuss whatever you wish. You may set magic about this cabin, so that you can be sure no one shall eavesdrop, and if you wish, I shall enter a magical pact with you, that I will not reveal your secrets. Steve Rogers has given his permission for this."

"Yes," Loki says. "To both." A pause. Loki swallows. "I have never done this before."

"I thought as much."

"I'm uncomfortable with this."

"We shall proceed at your pace."

"I have issues."

"Most people do."

"Not like mine."

"Most people think that." Loki almost laughs. Sven has an easy way of things, it seems, a confidence Loki had suspected not of a man of mind sciences, and he stands, slowly. He wards the cabin with the greatest care, and as he does so, Sven says, "I have put aside my Wednesdays for you. We can speak all day if you wish."

"Really? All day?"

"Indeed. Besides, I thought you would enjoy this. Norway is very different to America – we shall not stay in the cabin all the time, if you do not wish. I live very close to Trollheimen, the national park. We can walk together, here or drive out to Trondheim. Even hunt, when it is the season."

"That doesn't sound like therapy," Loki murmurs quietly, laying his gaze on Sven's face, and Sven smiles, slowly.

"Perhaps it is not traditional. But it is not every day one hears the troubles of a god. I thought I might change up my methods." Sven Nielsen is a good man. Loki knows this like he knows that the sky above their heads is blue, and like he knows the grass outside is green, feels it in his very bones. Somehow, it warms the anxiety he feels, makes it melt away a little.

"The oaths can wait," Loki murmurs, and he slides slowly into his seat again. Avoiding it will only make it worse, and doesn't he want to be better? Doesn't he want to be less _sad_? Less angry? Less… Himself? "Where should I start?" Sven's smile is warm, and paternal.

"Let us start somewhere easy. How are you feeling, as of late?"

Loki hesitates, and then begins to talk.


	16. Brought To Justice 16

**June 20th, 2012  
10:05AM (CEST)**

"I've always kept diaries," Loki says. He sighs, dragging his palm over the blanket beneath him: it is made of cream-coloured wool, with a soft brown pattern dyed into it. "Since I can remember, I kept diaries of everything I felt, everything that happened to me. In my library, I have thousands of them – I tend to fill five or six a year. It was the only way to get things out. In Asgard—" Loki trails off, and then he stares down at his hands. "One does not discuss one's innermost feelings. One ought merely be merry, and go about one's life with drinking and song."

"Nobody can be merry all the time," Sven says quietly. Loki lets out a long, low sigh, and he pushes his spectacles up his nose.

"No," he agrees.

"Did you have many friends, on Asgard?" Loki hesitates. "I am not here to judge you. Anything you tell me will be held in confidence – think of me like a tool, a mechanism that will allow you to look at your life through a healthier lens."

"You wish me to dehumanize you?"

"If it makes this easier." Loki bites at his lower lip, dragging his fingers over his palms. Why, he wonders, does he trust this man with such ease? How could Stark have _known_ how comfortable he would find speaking with Sven Nielsen,

"Then— No. Growing up, I was alongside Thor. We were as close as brothers could be, utterly inseparable. But he was older than me, by some years: when he met the cusp of his adolescence, he was allowed permissions I was not. To travel more freely, to run alongside the Warriors Three, and _Sif_ , his good friends. I was very solitary, as a child, when I was not in Thor's presence. Later, of course, I would travel within their band." Loki closes his eyes, and he imagines himself in the golden halls of Asgard's palace, walking with silent step over the stone floors, quite alone. He would spend his waking hours in the library, or in his bedroom, and elsewise he would walk the gardens, putting his seiðr into breeding flowers or coaxing new fruits to life from the boughs of old trees. "And, and I became friendly with the keeper of Asgard's orchards. Iðunn." He hears the quiet scratch of Sven's pen on a piece of paper. Writing down her name.

"That friendship did not last, I take it."

"No," Loki whispers. "I betrayed her. After that, we spoke not."

"I see," Sven says. "Tell me about these Warriors Three, then. Friends of Thor, you said?"

"Yes. The eldest, Volstagg. Volstagg the Lion, he calls himself, but most call him Volstagg the Fat, or Volstagg the Voluminous. He is very tall, with a thick beard of braided auburn hair, and he is large indeed… He is much older than Thor, with old age at his heels – in his youth, I am told, he was a most formidable warrior, but that is much changed, now. He has many children, and he's a most devoted father."

"You sound like you respect him."

"I do," Loki murmurs. "He's an old coot, and he over-embellishes his own strengths, often telling stories that are more lie than truth, but… He is very kind, at his core, and very gentle. When I was as yet in my youth, he was sometimes reluctant to allow me to travel with them, if the journey was to be fraught with danger. That— Obviously, as I grew older, he saw me less as a child. And then Hogun. Hogun the Grim, he is called – he is of Vanaheim. When Asgard conquered Vanaheim, Hogun challenged Thor to a battle, one-on-one, and Thor beat him, but Hogun was undeterred. He wished to follow the fight, he said, and he agreed to be Thor's shieldmate, that the two of them might fight together. He speaks very little, and we used to play chess, at times. He has an incredible mind – for all that he does not say, a thousand thoughts go on within his stony head. He believes in actions more than words."

"You admire him?"

"Yes, I think so. It's difficult not to."

"And what did Hogun and Volstagg think of you?" Loki sighs, softly.

"Hogun despised me. He would be polite, outwardly, for I was the quietest of the six of us, and subsequently I was the easiest with which for him to stand beside for long periods, but— He was always first to distrust me, first to blame me for some trouble. He hated my way with words, my predilection for deception and strategy. And magic, magic he hated most of all." The way Hogun had once looked at him, as if Loki was the most disgusting thing to crawl from the banks of the lakes of Asgard… "And Volstagg cared not for me either. Often he would call me a coward, or make fun of my feminine features, my lacking beard. There were a few years, where… I had married, and I had two sons, and in that time, he mocked me less. We bonded, some, over each being parents, where the rest of the band were childless, but when my sons were killed, he drew back. He wasn't unkind about it, of course, but I think he knew that speaking on his children would upset me. Even with his sympathy for me, Volstagg never _liked_ me."

Doesn't it sound pathetic, to lay things out like this? To tell this stranger, odd connection or not, all about how Loki's compatriots despised him? Thought him weak, and womanly? He looks to Sven, but Sven is an expressionless as ever as he asks, "And the third of the Warriors Three?" Loki hesitates.

"Fandral," he says. "The Dashing."

" _Dashing_?" Sven repeats. "A ladies' man, is he?" Loki nods his head. "And what do you think of him?"

"He is foppish: a dandy. Chivalrous, in his own mind. He cares more for the cut of his jerkin than he does for aught else. He has blond hair, flaxen, and a curling moustache… Bright blue eyes, soft skin. He is the smallest of the Warriors Three, built like me, but with narrower hips – and he's barely a year or two older than I, closer in age to me even than Thor and Sif. He holds a rapier, and he dresses himself ever in soft greens." Loki cannot help the contempt in his tone, and he watches, detached, as his fists clench in his lap.

"Sounds like there's quite a bit of bad blood between you."

"He could be very cruel, when he wanted to be," Loki mutters. "Asgard held me in contempt because I was— _Ergi_. Feminine, womanly. I used magic and short blades; I grew no beard; I wove, and sang, and gardened. But Fandral could grow no more a beard than I could, and instead kept his obscene tufts of yellow hair. He sang often, and danced, and wrote poetry. And yet _he_ was not reviled in the least – even as a cuckold and a heavy drinker, people would merely laugh and brush off his fun as harmless mischief, whereas I would be roundly despised. He was charming; I was a deceiver. He was handsome; I was pallid, or _pretty_ in the way of a corpse."

"And what did Fandral think of you?"

"He thought of me as a toy, a curiosity. Often, he would—" Loki begins to conjure strings between his hands, braiding them into tight, complicated knots, just to keep his hands busy. "He would _play_ with me."

"Play?" Sven repeats. "What do you mean?"

"I tended to keep myself away from the other warriors, because I knew they did not truly want me there. They accepted my presence only because of my fraternal connection to their leader: I knew my place. So I would take to the sides of parties, read, make quiet conversation… And he would watch me. I would feel his gaze on me, and he would come up, make some semblance of conversation. He would make his stare… Intense. Or he would smile, as if readying himself to seduce me. And he would draw closer, so close, until we were almost touching. Say things that were laced with innuendo."

"And how would you respond?"

"I would remain steadfast, at first. Refuse his attempts to fluster me. But he—" Loki feels the shame within him heavy in his chest, feels it hot within him, and he grips the strings between his hands so tightly that a knot frays and comes apart. "He knew that I found him handsome – everyone found him handsome – and sought to use that to his advantage." Sven slowly nods his head, his lips pressed loosely together. "In the end, I would flee, from whatever party it was. Mostly he would let me go, but sometimes he would follow me, speak loving poetry in my ear until I burned him, or cast him off with magic."

"And – forgive me if I've missed something – how did you know this was done with your pain in mind?" Loki blinks, staring down at the knotted string between his hands.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it seems like this fellow, Fandral… You're saying he flirted with you; that you found him handsome. What makes you think he did this out of some desire to hurt you, as opposed to a desire _for_ you?" Loki is suddenly very aware of the weight of his own tongue in his dry mouth, pressed against the back of his teeth. He thinks of Fandral's easy smiles, the way he would playfully shove Loki in the side after a battle, thinks of Fandral's fingers cupping his cheek as he pins Loki against a corridor wall.

 _("You don't think I'd tell Thor, do you?" he had asked, lowly. His lips had been so pink, and his breath so warm against Loki's own, and Loki had felt like dropping to his knees and letting Fandral take whatever he wished. "I won't. It's a tumble in the sheets, my prince – what, pray, are you so frightened of?"_

 _"Thor is your prince. Not I."_

 _"Loki—"_ )

"I was his good friend's younger brother," Loki murmurs. "I was to him as forbidden fruit. As we each grew older, he ceased his teasing, for I was more confident in refusing his attentions, not falling prey to his japes, and once I was a widower, I'm sure I was less attractive to him. But even then, he would never allow for my solitude. He would constantly draw me into conversations when our band was riding out, forcing me into the spotlight. He would mockingly praise my attributes, or play as my defender when the others spurned me."

"You mean, he would strive to include you in conversations," Sven says, not unkindly, "and that he would stand against his friends when they were cruel to you?" Loki feels a sickness make itself known in his stomach, and he stares down at the wood-panelled floor of Sven's cabin. "Is it so unlikely this young man was just trying to be kind to you? That he genuinely enjoyed, and desired your company?"

 _Of course it is,_ Loki wants to say, _There wasn't a soul on Asgard that didn't despise me_ , _barring Thor and Mother._

"I don't know," he says instead.

"Let's take a walk," Sven suggests quietly, and he stands to get his coat.

 **June 20th, 2012  
6:25AM (EDT)**

"Where's Loki?" Nick asks, glancing around the common room as if expecting Loki to hang down from the ceiling or jump out from behind a bookshelf. Steve chuckles, shaking his head.

"Norway," Steve says.

"Norway? What the Hell's he doing in Norway?"

"Therapy."

"Shit," Nick mutters, and he follows Steve into his office, dropping himself casually onto the sofa in the corner. Steve wonders, for a second, what he'd do if he knew what Steve and Loki had _done_ on that sofa— But no. Probably best not to think about that. "Can't think of a guy that needs it more."

 _I dunno,_ Steve thinks to himself, _Maybe me_. He glances at the calendar on the wall, where the 23rd of June has a short, neat note to himself saying _Eanna McDonagh, 1pm._ He looks back to Nick.

"You here about the damage report?" Nick nods his head, drawing his hand over his chin and squinting with his single eye.

"Yeah," he says. "This slime thing… Loki's report says it was some kinda demon, and that he didn't get a name, so we're just trying to get a handle on what its whole intention was. We checked in with Doctor Strange, and it turns out there's some artefact in _his_ house he thinks was responsible for drawing the thing in – 'cause the whole deal with the Chitauri, the walls between the two dimensions were thin, and he thinks this thing slipped through."

"Right," Steve says, nodding his head slowly. He keeps his expression carefully blank. Nick looks at him, arching his eyebrows.

"You, uh, you gonna tell me about whatever this thing Loki and Strange have going on?"

"I was thinking he wouldn't mention it."

"Oh, he mentioned it," Nick says. "So you do _know_ , then?"

"Of course I know," Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. Nick's lips twist into a grim little line, and Steve holds his gaze, unblinking. "What, you want me to keep him locked up all the time? It's harmless."

"Strange is a pretty powerful guy," Nick says lowly. "One of the most powerful guys we have record. I don't exactly want to risk him taking Loki off our hands and adding him to his collection of artefacts and objects. Loki's too damned powerful for that." _Ha_. Does Nick know how on the mark he is, Steve wonders, with Strange seeing Loki like an object? Something to be collected?

"Off _our_ hands, huh?" Steve repeats.

"You know damned well what I mean. Steve—"

"Yeah, I get you," Steve murmurs. "He's fine, Nick. I understand your concern, but if I try to hem him in too much, he'll just get resentful, and that won't help anybody. His thing with Strange is his own business." Even if it pisses Steve off. Even if Strange is obnoxious, and arrogant. "That the only reason you're here? To ask about Loki's sex life?"

"Nah," Nick murmurs. "I got a mission that needs a guy like you on it." He takes a file out of his jacket, and hands it over. "Take a look."

 **June 20th, 2012  
10:37AM (CEST)**

The sun is shining, and Loki allows himself to fall into step beside Sven Nielsen, his hands loosely in the pockets of his suit. This suit is a soft grey, paired with a light blue shirt, and he feels out of place next to Sven, who wears a flannel shirt tucked into denim jeans, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Loki glances down at his heavy boots, and at Sven's arms, which are marked in places.

"Were you always a counsellor?"

"No," Sven answers. "I was a doctor, for many years. When I retired, I left Oslo, and I came here. This was our summer home, once, but now I live here all year around. I only counsel rarely."

"Why take me?" Loki asks. He does his best to keep the distrust out of his voice, but evidently, Sven hears it, because his lips quirk into an amused smile.

"Tony Stark saved my son's life, some years ago. He was over in America, at a party – he was working with this charity that the Stark Expo was sponsoring – and he had a fainting spell coming off the stage. Cut his head on the stage side as he fell. Stark was calm, authoritative, did not give into the panic of the situation: he put his jacket under Bjørn's head, had somebody call for an ambulance, sat with him… He kept his head where others, very drunk, did not. I thanked him personally, when I flew to New York to visit my son in the hospital."

"He called in a favour," Loki murmurs, smiling.

"He did."

"He and Steve Rogers are very different." Loki feels the bubble, the shield, around the two of them as they walk down the path, keeping what they say muffled from any passers by who might chance to hear them. "Steven so hates for anybody to be in his debt. He would give somebody the moon on a string, and insist they need never repay him."

"How do you feel about Steven?" Sven asks.

"I don't want to talk about that." The words come so quickly out of Loki's mouth, tumbling from his silver tongue, that he is almost surprised, but Sven presses not. He merely spreads his palms, as if to show he holds no weapons in them, the gesture as old as time. Loki sets his jaw, and he looks out over the green hills, feels the wind on his face, playing through his hair.

"Is there anything you would like to talk about?" Sven asks, gently.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to want to talk about," Loki admits. The honesty stings – it is bad enough to require therapy for one's ills, but what does it say of a man that once he arrives, he does not even know where to start? "I feel there is much wrong with me, but I know not where first I should begin to fix myself."

"Let's start with your flaws, then," Sven says quietly. "What would you say they are?"

"I am cold. Uncaring. Cruel. I think too much; I overanalyse situations. Often, I am manipulative. I struggle to— My emotions run deep. I find I can scarcely control them at times; I am prone to bouts of deep melancholy, where I lack the energy to do aught but remain alone, perhaps paint or play music." Sven nods, slowly.

"Do you really think you're so uncaring?" he asks, quietly. "Seems to me an uncaring man wouldn't mind if he was cruel. Wouldn't feel the need to change that about himself. I have no doubt you _wish_ you were uncaring." Loki bites down on his lower lip, and he looks out over the green, green grass, which is heavy with morning dew. The skies are blue above their heads, and the warm weather makes him wish to swim. "I think your problem is perhaps that you care too much."

"The emotions of gods," Loki says softly, "run deep. Divinities are affected by those that believe in them – those beliefs give us strengths and weaknesses in stark hyperbole. It is said that were a mere mortal to experience the wrath of the gods, the grief of the gods, even the joy of the gods… They would be driven swiftly to madness. People always told me I was mad. I think, sometimes, they must be right."

"It is very easy to label somebody one doesn't wish to help as mad," Sven says quietly. "To say somebody is _mad_ , why, it says they are beyond help. It removes the responsibility to try." Sven's hand touches Loki's shoulder, and his touch is warm. "You are not beyond help, Loki. You deserve the chance to heal."

"Thank you," Loki whispers. The gratitude that burns warm in his chest is indescribable, and he says, "You do remember me, don't you?"

"I remember," Sven says quietly, "A boy. Drunk on whiskey, swimming in the frozen lake, and laughing as we bundled him into our car. He should have had hypothermia: he did not. That is all I remember. As if in a dream, I remember it."

"That doesn't sound like me," Loki murmurs.

"He didn't look like you. But… As you say. If it was another life, another life it was." They walk, for some minutes, in complete silence. Loki's heart soars at the sensation of the tarmac of the path beneath his feet, inhaling the grass scent on the air, and the scent of flower blossoms, and dew.

"Asgard always viewed me as a villain, so a villain I was. Whenever I tried to be anything else, I was punished. My first wife was murdered, my first four children ripped away from me. My second wife and I grew apart, when our two sons died. When I tried to be a teacher, I was laughed at and called a woman. When I pursued music, I was called ergi. And as a warrior, I was labelled a lowly sorcerer. Happiness is not in my nature. It is not my destiny."

"Destiny," Sven repeats. "Nature. These are things of Asgard: you are of Midgard now. You can be whatever you choose to be." Loki takes these words into his mouth, feels them, tastes them. What does he _choose_ to be?

 _Better_ , he decides. _Better_.

 _Even as you squirrel your way out of the bonds that tie you to Steven Rogers?_ asks a snake-like voice deep in the recesses of his mind. _Really?_

 _Even then,_ Loki decides. _Better is still better, whether Rogers holds my leash or not._

 **June 20th, 2012  
9:49AM (EDT)**

"Steve," Wanda says, and Steve looks up from the folder of documents he'd been reading through. Wanda looks tired, and there is a bruise healing on the side of her neck, but she smiles at him as if she's grateful to see him. "I heard there was a demon, whilst I was in Philadelphia? Is everyone alright?"

"Yeah," Steve says, shutting the folder and setting it aside. "Yeah, everyone's fine. Bruce had some pretty bad burns, but Loki healed him just fine, and he's up and around now. How was Philly?"

"Lorna, Pietro and I have been rebuilding. With the three of us working in tandem— The Mayor is insisting on giving us some sort of award. It was…" Wanda's lips quirk into a very small smile, and she looks tragic for a moment. "It was family."

"That's great," Steve says quietly. "You should call your dad. Use those warm feelings while they last." It isn't intended cruelly, and Wanda knows that: her smile becomes a little wider, and she laughs, softly.

"You're right," she murmurs. Her hand brushes his shoulder, and she offers him a quietly inquisitive look. "It's hard for us, you know. The old guard. Even if you were in the ice for so long. You can always join us for family dinners, Steve." It's strange, how much that touches him, how much he feels it in his chest, and he puts his hand gently over hers, feeling the red leather of her glove beneath his palm.

"That's— That's real nice of you, Wanda. I'll keep it in mind. Thanks." She walks past him, moving deeper into the building, and he hears her call for Bruce. Glancing back to the manila folder, he strokes over the card, feeling it under his fingers. The mission's simple – some lab out in Nevada, a facility that Nick can't quite track the funding for, studying abnormal genetics.

 _Completely classified_ , Nick had said. _You can tell Loki, and that's it. Romanov is already in the know._

But _will_ he tell Loki? He doesn't know just yet. Isn't sure about it. He glances at his phone.

 **Steve Rogers, 10:32AM  
Hey, what time are you back from Norway?**

It's nearly twelve. No response yet.

 **June 20th, 2012  
05:27PM (CEST)**

"Do you enjoy it?" Loki is washing dishes in Sven's sink. They had cooked lunch and eaten together – fresh venison in a simple stirfry – and it had felt curiously normal. Loki hesitates, staring down at the plate as he draws the cloth over its white surface before he rinses it beneath the running tap.

"I don't know what you mean," Loki says, setting the plate on the rack to dry. Sven takes the plate, beginning to wipe over it with his tea towel.

"You were a warrior on Asgard. You would accompany your brother on quests hither and thither. Now you are an Avenger, and you fight here on Earth. Do you enjoy it? The fighting?" Loki stares at the running water, feeling it run warm over his hands, and then he forces himself back into focus, beginning to scrub at the pan held loosely in his right hand.

"I've never thought about it," he admits.

"Perhaps you should."

"Perhaps," Loki agrees. He feels the grease come away from the pan, sticky and thick upon his hands, and he looks out of the window, which overlooks a modest yard. Sven's goat, named Hilde, is idly chewing upon grass. "My brother keeps goats."

"Do you like them?" Sven asks. Loki shakes his head. "They are stubborn animals – headstrong and full of personality. They do as they please, and they care not for anyone's objections."

"How enviable." Sven chuckles, taking the pan and drying it off, hanging it up with the others upon the wall. "Do you believe in good and bad? That there are good people, and bad ones?"

"Not really," Sven answers, shrugging his shoulders. "I believe in being kind, but not everybody can be kind all the time. It is not easy to be kind, if you have not been taught how. It is not easy to be kind, if life has not been kind to you. It is important that we give people a chance – to label them good, or to label them bad… This is counterproductive."

"I like the way you think," Loki says softly. "I feel at odds sometimes, with my own personhood. As if my very being is a contradiction. It makes me feel so… So angry. I cannot be comfortable even within my own skin."

"Let's talk about that," Sven says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "This anger… To whom is it directed?"

"At me."

"Why you?"

"Because I—" Loki turns off the tap. The lack of rushing water makes the room feel abruptly silent. "I don't know. I hate myself, sometimes. I don't know why. Everyone else seems to – perhaps it's simply peer pressure." Sven does not laugh at his ill attempt at humour. He just keeps his sea-green eyes on Loki's face, watching him, expectant. "It seems no matter whether I try to do good or do bad, I am punished all the same. I must deserve it, somehow."

"Nobody deserves anything. The universe does not keep score as much as we would like."

"What a chilling thought," Loki says.

"Is it so chilling? Why?"

"Because—" _Because it isn't fair,_ he almost says, and then he realises precisely how naïve, how ridiculous that would sound. "Because it means it was all for nothing. Everything – it has no meaning in the scheme of the universe. If no score has been kept, what is the point in every past move?"

"Perhaps there is no point," Sven says, nodding his head. "But equally, does that not mean you are without burden? If there is no score to settle, that means you have neither debt on your shoulders, nor debt owed you. You are free to make your next move as you choose."

"How comes a human to be so full of wisdom?" Loki asks, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"As it comes to anybody," Sven answers, simply. "With grief, and time."

 **June 20th, 2012  
01:54PM (EDT)**

On his Skywalk home, fresh-picked flowers held against Loki's breast, he thinks on Sven Nielsen. He had bound the other man in magical secrecy before he had left, and Sven had contentedly submitted to the magical oath, submitted to the binding. Loki had agreed to return the following Wednesday. The time difference of six hours between New York and Norway is of great assistance, in all truth – it means that Loki is available for more of the day when he returns to America.

He does not move directly toward Avengers Tower, instead settling on the ground around Bleecker Street.

Stephen opens the door, and Loki holds up the bouquet. He sees Stephen's nostrils flare as he takes in their slightly sickly scent, and his lips quirk into a small smile as he takes them from Loki's hand and into his arms. "Lilies. They represent death, you know."

"Do they?" Loki says, mildly. "I had no idea."

"Come in," Stephen murmurs, Loki follows him into the labyrinthine corridors of the house that isn't _quite_ in Greenwich Village, and he watches as Stephen whispers a few words, drawing a symbol on the kitchen counter and summoning a vase into its place. He pours water into it, carefully arranging the lilies within it, and Loki watches him, distantly.

"My bonds are loosening," he says. Stephen freezes, turning to glance at him. His eyes are wide, his brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"You can't see it?" Stephen looks at Loki properly, now, and his gaze becomes distant, faraway, as he looks _past_ Loki, instead looking at his seiðr. Frowning, he tilts his head, as if perplexed. "Strange, isn't it? I can't quite puzzle it out. My magic is outgrowing the bond, somehow."

"Outgrowing," Stephen repeats, softly. "Perhaps that's it." Ah. Loki frowns, feeling his seiðr within him, feeling its coil like some mighty snake hiding in a small space indeed. His seiðr has grown with him, over all the millennia he has used to it: the more magic he performs, the more magic he learns, the more energy that is drawn into his very body. And if one outgrows one's cuffs? The cuffs _snap_. This is a fact every shapeshifter knows.

Stephen and Loki share a smile.

"If I grow enough as a sorcerer," Loki says softly, "the Allfather's bonds will cease to contain me."

"And you will be free." Loki feels himself laugh, feels the sound bubble in his throat, and he looks at Stephen for the longest few moments.

"I'll make you an exchange," Loki says, softly. "I'll let you in my library if you'll permit me access to yours." The want on Stephen's face is insurmountable.

"No," he says, despite his evident desire. "I want more than that." Loki shows his teeth.

"Then I shall consider my proposal denied," he says smoothly. Stephen's smile is tight, and he steps forwards, sliding his hands around Loki's waist. He feels the ebb and flow of Stephen's power around him, and he slides his own hands over the other man's chest, feeling his cloak twitch under the touch. He feels strangely confident, coming away from his appointment with Sven Nielsen, and he digs his fingers into the flesh of Stephen's chest, making him hiss, quietly. "I should like to have you," he murmurs, quietly. "Would you let me, I wonder?"

"I don't do that sort of thing," Stephen says. Loki laughs.

"How old-fashioned of you." Loki is reminded of Asgard, for a moment. Perhaps he should walk away, right now, take his leave of Strange and never look back, and yet, and yet… "You should hurt me, then. I find myself in need of stimulation."

" _Hurt_ you?" Stephen repeats, amused. "And how might I do that?"

"Oh, your hand will do. Shall we say fifty strokes?"

"Let's make it an even hundred." Stephen is nothing _important_ , after all – he is a distraction, a game, a toy to play with. "Bend over the counter." And gladly, Loki does.

 **June 20th, 2012  
04:30PM**

"Have you been in Norway this whole time?" Steve asks as Loki enters his office, sipping at a steaming mug of coffee. "It's nearly eleven o'clock over there."

"I may have taken a detour upon my return," Loki murmurs snidely, and Steve sighs.

"Sit down," he says. Some of the smugness leaves Loki's face, and although there is no hesitation as he obeys the order, he hisses out a low sound as he descends onto the sofa. Steve arches an eyebrow. "Did you take a detour to get your ass beat?"

"Something like that," Loki says hazily. His eyes are partly lidded, and he says quietly, "My talk with my counsellor was rather productive. I found myself in desire of sensation afterwards. I'll show you, if you like – I'm turning the most interesting colours."

"I know what a bruised backside looks like," Steve says, and despite the situation, he can't help but laugh. "You're such a—" he stops himself. "You really like it, huh." He's astonished at how little worry he feels, how little Loki's evident satisfaction triggers his anxiety – Loki's _content_ , and that kinda seems like it's enough. "The pain, I mean."

"Oh, yes," Loki murmurs, nodding. "There's really nothing better. Now, what did you call me in for? Something dark and foreboding, I take it?" Steve passes him the manila folder. Loki opens it, and his amusement bleeds from his face: immediately, he sets his coffee aside, and he begins to study the paper in detail, his eyes intently scanning the page. The pain in his ass doesn't seem to register as he shifts his position, turning the page.

"We're mobilising tomorrow," Steve murmurs. "You, me, and Romanov. I need you to have our backs."

"I can do that," Loki says, seriously. "Norns, Steven, is this— Is this true?" He taps his fingernail against a list of experiments, and Steve nods his head. Loki twists his mouth. Some shadow passes through his eyes, something dark, and unnamed, and unknowable. "I'll have your backs," he echoes, quietly.

Steve nods again, and he turns to look out of the window. Seventy years in the ice, and some things… Some things just don't change.


	17. Brought To Justice 17

**June 20th, 2012  
[redacted]**

There is a roar in Steve's years, and he exhales, feeling the pound of his boots against the shaking ground beneath him. His nostrils are full of the acrid scent of an incinerator, working through its fuel ( _bodies! Bodies! Skulls and hands and ribs in the incinerator, still bloody-)_ , full of the tang of blood, and his left hand is aching with every step of his foot upon the hard floor.

The floor is trembling, quaking as explosions sound in the distance, and Steve holds up his shield to protect himself as glass shatters overhead.

"Steve!" he hears Nat yell, but then there is bright light burning his eyes, and he feels the scream in his throat although he doesn't hear it.

 **June [redacted], 2012  
[redacted]**

"Don't you fucking touch me!" Steve hisses, and he spits glass onto the ground. The pain in his body is indescribable, and here are these _damned_ scientists, trying to take more blood out of his arm—

" _He's_ my damned doctor, and you don't have my consent to do any fucking procedure without his approval!" Loki swims before Steve's failing vision as he scrambles out of bed, but Loki's arms catch him fast before he falls.

 **June [redacted], 2012  
[redacted]**

Steve groans, and he feels a cold hand touch against his forehead, feeling his temperature.

"I can't open my eyes," he says, and it hurts to speak: his voice is cracked and hoarse, and he coughs.

"Sleep," comes the reply, and when two fingers brush against his temple, consciousness seeps away from Steve like an outgoing tide.

 **[redacted], 2012  
[redacted]**

Steve comes awake with a sudden gasp, and he glances around, trying to get a grip on his surroundings. He's in a hospital bed, but it's a private hospital room or a hospice – he can tell because there's actual wallpaper on the walls, showing pink flowers blooming and curling across the wall on vines, and the furniture is all made of oak wood, even the bed he's lying on, though he can see that the bed has wheels on it.

Beside him, on the bedside table, a complicated silver object regularly turns in place, tapping a soft chime onto the air: _chime-chime, chime-chime, chime-chime_ — Steve's hand slowly goes to his chest, and he feels his heartbeat. _Beat-beat, beat-beat, beat-beat_. A monitoring device, then, to keep track of his heart. His hand rises, going to his neck, and he feels a small disc of silver pressed against the side of his throat, flattened against the skin.

Sun is shining into the room, and Steve can see it's barely past dawn, the light new. His gaze falls down to the figure on the sill, curled into a ball. Loki's skin has a lilac pallor to it, and although his eyes are closed, his figure is stiff, even in his sleep. His jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed, and every now and then he will twitch in his sleep.

Wearing dark robes that fall around his body like blankets, Steve can see Loki's feet are bare, and his thick hair looks like it has gone several days unwashed; there are grey bags beneath Loki's eyes, visible through the glasses Loki's wearing even as he sleeps, and he looks _terrible_.

Steve turns to the bedside table, and he sees his phone on it, on charge. Reaching for it, he pulls it loose from the charger, and he brings up Nick Fury as a contact, tapping in a quick text.

 **Steve Rogers, 05:34  
I'm awake.**

A minute passes, and then the door opens – God, the guy must have been right outside. Nick Fury stands in the doorway, his black clothes very dark against the morning light and the soft colours of the wardrobe, and at the creak of the door Loki jumps up from his place on the window sill, looking around with panic in his blue eyes.

His eyes settle on Steve, and then he is on his feet, moving business-like toward him: his hand touches Steve's forehead, and then he is dragging his palm through the air above Steve's body. Seiðr shifts and changes on the air, creating read-outs made up of foreign symbols Steve can't quite read, and Steve doesn't think he imagines the relief on Loki's face as his eyes move over them.

Loki's eyes look dry, and they're purple around their edges: he sees why when Loki reaches up, pulling his glasses aside, and rubs _hard_ against his left eye with the heel of his hand, as if frustrated with it. Pushing his lank hair back from his face, he mutters something in a language Steve can't understand, a language that makes frost form on Loki's lips, and Loki gestures for Nick to take the chair at Steve's bedside.

"You're quite healed," Loki says quietly. "I had feared…" He trails off, and Steve doesn't miss the way he sways slightly and grips tightly at the bedpost of Steve's footboard. "You were caught in a blast – a self-destruction system, and you were caught by three or four fridges full of samples, genetic materials, which interacted with the serum in your blood. I spent a great deal of time simply _purifying_ you."

"You look terrible," Steve says.

"Why don't I get us each some food?" Loki asks, before Steve can say anything else. He smiles, wanly. "You must be hungry indeed. I've been giving you scant nourishment with magic alone." Steve feels his stomach give a quiet rumble, as if in response to what Loki had said, and he nods.

"Yeah, sure," he says, and he watches as slippers materialise on Loki's feet. He walks slowly from the room, and Steve watches him go – there's something strange about his gait, as if he's sick himself. "What's wrong with him?" he asks, turning to Nick. Nick is silent for a long moment, his lips pressed together.

"He's just tired," Nick says, finally. "That's all. He's been taking care of you all this time – you've been out for over a week."

"What's the date?" Steve asks.

"July 2nd."

"Jesus Christ," Steve mutters. "How's Nat?"

"She's fine," Nick says immediately, nodding his head. "She was discharged the same day she came in – Loki managed to pull her back and shield her with his magic, but you were out of his sightline and he couldn't act fast enough to help. You were kinda… You were cut all over with glass, and because of the force of the blast, a lot of it went straight through your uniform, so that's gonna need a redesign. And like he said, the most of it was just the chemicals. He had you unconscious the whole time, except for a few moments where you woke up, and he was pretty much next to you the whole week. He was kinda… I don't know, he explained it to me at one point – it was kinda like he was running your blood through a magical strainer. Taking out the stuff that didn't fit before it could do any damage. Your liver was shot, one of your kidneys was failing… And you just demanded all the SHIELD doctors leave you alone."

"I remember that," Steve murmurs, trying to order the hazy memories in his mind. "They were taking blood samples. At the time, it seemed unnecessary. I was— I was in a lot of pain."

"Yeah," Nick agrees. The doors open, and Loki comes into the room. Setting a tray over Steve's lap, he sets out a rotisserie chicken, still in the bag from wherever he'd bought it from, and then bread and cheese that settle on the table beside the bed. Steve takes a little of the bread and cheese, chewing slowly – it feels weird, to have food in his mouth, his jaw feeling strange as he moves it, and he takes care in swallowing.

Loki, on the other hand, seems positively ravenous. He bites into a leg of the chicken and chews hurriedly, swallowing it down greedily, and for a second, Steve sees the hint of the wolf about him, sharpening his ears and yellowing his eyes, his teeth showing white and sharp as he tears off pieces of meat.

"You hungry?"

"Yes," Loki says. He takes a piece of bread, next, hungrily taking in a huge piece of it and chewing it like he'll _die_ without it. Nick passes Steve a bottle of water, and Steve takes a slow sip, glancing to Nick. Nick seems intent on ignoring Loki, even though all his usual table manners are nowhere to be seen, even as grease mars his chin and his cheeks, and he _swallows_ so thickly and so loudly.

"When's the last time you ate?" Steve asks, quietly.

"I'm not in the mood to talk right now, if it's quite alright with you," Loki says gruffly. He wipes his face with a conjured handkerchief, and he bites into a cube of cheese.

" _When?_ "

"The 20th of June," Loki says.

"When's the last time you slept?"

"Some minutes ago," Loki answers, harshly. "Shut up, Steven, and break your fast."

"Loki," Steve starts, and magic flares upon the air, a wave of heat hitting Steve in the face.

" _Eat_ ," Loki orders, the word full to the brim with seiðr and echoing off the walls of the room, and although there's no actual power _forcing_ Steve to obey, he does. They eat without words, the only sound the soft, wet bite of Loki's teeth into the chicken or tearing into the bread, and Steve only has a few slices of bread and a leg of the chicken – Loki eats the rest.

He vanishes the remnants, the paper and the plates dissolving into the ether, and then he falls back against the footboard of Steve's bed, his chest rising and falling beneath the silken fabric of his black robes. "Those aren't healer's robes," Steve says, after a long silence.

"This is the garb I wear as Motlordraugr. I should be wearing a mask with them, but I thought it would scare the nurses." Loki sighs, and Steve reaches off the side of the bed, curving his hand under Loki's ankles and pulling them up onto the bed, so that his silver slippers clatter onto the ground and Loki's bare feet are in line with Steve's hips.

"Motlordraugr," Steve repeats, quietly. That had been the first file on the pile Loki had given him, and he tastes the strange name in his mouth – Motlordraugr is the high priest of funeral rights in the Galaxxus Empire, and he wears a mask of heavy bone. Why would Loki dress like that, to be Steve's healer? Was he so certain Steve would die? "Was I really on the edge?"

"No," Loki says, shaking his head, and he takes up a fistful of the dark, silken fabric in his hand, letting it run through his fingers like water. "No, these robes are enchanted. They have a preservative effect on their wearer. They allowed me to retain energy despite expending it. I will be wrapped in these robes when I die, assuming my funeral instructions are adhered to."

"Of course they'll be adhered to," Steve mutters. "Why wouldn't they be?"

"Because Thor would have my body disposed of in the way of Asgard. Anything else he would consider ignoble. But I don't wish for my body to be burned and set adrift upon the stars. I want the flesh to be stripped from my bones, and I want my bones to be laid on a marble altar, decorated with silver and draped in these cloths."

"Why do they strip the bones?" Nick asks, and Loki turns to look at him. Loki's exhaustion is showing even more on his face, now, and Steve knows he hasn't slept since the night before the mission.

"In the Galaxxus Empire," Loki says, slowly, "Class is everything. It is regimented, and although class mobility is more than possible, it follows a very firmly established set of rules. Class is everything, dictating one's dress, one's hobbies, one's language – even the physicality of one's body is affected by class, showing in the amount of fat or muscle upon one's body. But in death, all are equal. The flesh is stripped away, the fat, the muscle, and one's bones are bleached in the acid juices of the grappa fruit. Barring the effects of injury upon the body, one cannot tell one skeleton from the next. There are certain silver pieces that adorn the corpse, but these are handed down from family to family, and cost next to nothing to get hold of, and one is dressed in a silk robe set like this one… But that is all. Even the empress, even the gods, are laid to rest in the same manner."

Steve's hand is against Loki's ankle, feeling the cold stone of the skin beneath his touch, and he says, "That's nice, in a way. Do the skeletons just stay out forever?"

"The bones are laid out in something not unlike a greenhouse. The sun comes down through the stained glass, playing over the bones in different colours, and the bones bake, then turn to dust. The whole process takes perhaps thirty days. That is why the robes are needed – as the bones turn to dust, they retain their shape, keeping in the same place, and then the dust is made into some enamel ornament." Loki smiles, softly, and Steve wonders how much comfort it gives him, to think about the way he'll be laid to rest. Steve used to think about his funeral a lot, when he was a kid – now he knows he'll probably be buried with unavoidable fanfare, full military honours, a big crowd… It makes him feel sick. He presses his palm against the prominent bone of Loki's ankle, and he feels the cold of it soothe him.

When he looks up, he sees that Loki is fast asleep, still leaning back against the footboard of the bed, his head tilted back against the wood. Steve looks at Nick, who reaches forward, and pats Steve's shoulder. "I'll let you sleep a while. You want me to wake him up, take him with me?"

"No," Steve says, shaking his head. "We can talk through the mission later today." Nick nods, and Steve watches as he walks out of the room, the door shutting behind him. Steve leans forward, and he reaches for Loki's hand. Loki startles, his eyes opening, and Steve pulls him by his wrists.

"I should go," Loki mumbles, exhaustedly. "I'll go back to the Tower, I haven't bathed in days, and I—"

"Lie down," Steve says quietly, and Loki falls to the mattress with him as if he's already a corpse. He makes no motion to move away from Steve, and instead crawls under the light sheet with Steve, one of his thighs insinuating its way between Steve's, his arms wrapping around Steve's body through the hospital gown, and in the summer heat, Loki is _gloriously_ cold.

"You demanded I be your healer," Loki whispers, "and I couldn't leave your side. I couldn't _bear_ the idea of walking away, of taking a break, and if your health failed in the meantime—" Steve feels guilt swell in his chest, guilt at having left Loki in such a difficult position, and for a second he wants to get angry at Tony, demand why he wasn't there to _order_ Loki to get some sleep, but… It was a classified mission. Steve's injuries are classified too, he guesses, and for all he feels fine now, if he was out for _eleven days_ — God. Maybe Loki really _couldn't_ leave his side.

"It's okay," Steve whispers against Loki's mouth. "I'm sorry I gave you that order, I wouldn't have if I'd been in my right hand."

"No," Loki says, shaking his head. "You never ordered me to do a thing. I chose to act as your healer: you never actually told me to do so. You merely told the SHIELD doctors I was authorised in that capacity."

"You shouldn't have starved yourself. Shouldn't have kept yourself from sleeping. Eleven days of no eating and no sleep? _And_ doing magic the whole time?" Loki's lips quirk into a small smile, and he slides his hand over Steve's cheek, his body inhumanly cold, inhumanly stiff: Loki, inhuman. Loki is looking at him with his blue eyes full of softness, and his fingers draw a slow circle against Steve's cheek. "Loki, I'm serious."

"As was I," Loki murmurs, "about saving you." His hand moves lower, settling against Steve's hip, and the other is crushed between their cheeks as Loki takes half of Steve's pillow for himself, his eyes closing. _This is probably bad for his back_ , Steve thinks to himself, but he doesn't pull away. He feels Loki's breathing even out, and he knows they shouldn't be lying like this, not in a public space—

But he pushes that aside, for now. He closes his eyes, and he lets himself drift.

 **3rd July, 2012  
10:27AM**

"You don't have to carry me," Steve mutters, and Loki lets out a short, derisive sound, shifting the way his right shoulder supports Steve. Steve is walking just fine – he's simply a little shaky on his feet – but Loki doesn't seem willing to let him walk on his own just yet.

"I don't _have_ to," Loki agrees. "I suppose I could drop you on the ground and allow you the indignity of crawling, but I think I'll stay like so." They walk up the stairs to Avengers Tower together, and Steve feels himself stumble as they cross the threshold, but Loki keeps him standing.

Once Loki had fallen asleep the final time in Steve's hospital bed, he'd barely stirred until around six this morning. He'd expected more awkwardness from Nick, but there hadn't been any: Steve had just shifted to the side of the bed, leaving Loki sprawled out beside him like a stone weight, and they'd talked like he wasn't there.

He wasn't, in spirit. Steve's never seen the guy sleep so deeply.

Loki wears a suit of scarlet, the pants flared at the ankles and the shirt's neckline plunging, topped off with a wide-brimmed black hat. Steve had laughed at the outfit when he'd seen it, but as they'd walked through the streets of New York, taking the exercise and the fresh air, no one had spared Steve a _glance_ , let alone enough of a stare to recognize him. All eyes had been on Loki.

"We need to talk, you know," he says as they walk slowly toward the elevators. "About what you did."

"I healed you of all your ills," Loki says cleanly. "What is it we need to discuss?"

"What if I'd been out for longer?" Steve asks, quietly. "For fifteen days? Twenty? How long until you dropped of exhaustion?"

"The only thing keeping me there was my own desire to heal you, Captain," Loki says stiffly. "If I might not be permitted the luxury of freedom, I might humbly request the luxury of caring for that which is important to me. Allow me sentiment, at least." Something pops in Steve's chest, like a little balloon, and he feels it spread its warmth through his heart.

They step into the elevator, and he watches as Loki presses his finger to two of the buttons – the one for the common area and the button for the floor Steve's suite is on. Loki carefully disentangles himself from Steve, and Steve grasps at the bar at the side of the elevator, leaning on it heavily, and Loki says softly, "Perhaps it is for the best. That I must obey merely your orders, and not your every thought." There's something strangely significant about the way that Loki says it, and Steve turns to frown at him, a little confused. "You missed a few appointments in your unconsciousness. Natasha took care of them, I believe."

"I missed my psych appointment," Steve murmurs.

"I've missed one as well," Loki replies, shrugging his shoulders. "They'll understand." Steve almost wants to ask – what's your counsellor like? What did you talk about? Did it help? What should I expect? But he doesn't say anything. He stands still, quiet, until Loki asks, "Tomorrow isn't really your birthday, is it?"

Steve grins despite himself, looking down at his feet. Maybe that's the explanation for the strange look on Loki's face, distracted as it is. "I didn't realize you knew."

"The _fourth_ of _July_ – your America's celebration of independence – is your birthday, and you tell me you don't believe in destiny. Poppycock." Steve laughs, gripping the handrail a little tighter as the elevator begins to ascend, and he watches Loki for a long few moments.

"When's your birthday? Back on Asgard?" Loki shakes his head.

"I'm certain I don't know," he says, simply. "But my name day is midway through Þorri. This is the feast day for me, and all those named in my honour." He seems to hesitate for a second, and then says, "When I was a child, my feast days were great events, parties. As time went by—" Loki trails off. "Few would tar their children with the name of Loki. Ordinarily, I would ensure I wasn't within the realms of the city for the occasion."

"That won't happen here," Steve promises, and he grabs at Loki's hand, squeezing it in his own. "We'll make your fake birthday the biggest party around."

"And here I thought t'was merely I with sentiment," Loki murmurs, but his tone is not unkind. He steps from the elevator, moving out toward the common room, but not before he gives Steve a polite bow, and Steve watches him go as the lift doors close. Eleven days. _Eleven days_.

 _And he wanted to do that,_ says the softly accented voice. _You did not order him: he wished to do it. To care for you._

Steve sets his jaw, and he looks at his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator, thinking of the way Loki had felt in his arms the morning previous, curled right against him and fitting into the crooks of Steve's body as if he was _meant_ to be there, and the way he had slept so soundly at Steve's side.

"Happy birthday to me," he mutters, and he walks shakily from the elevator as the doors slide open.

 **3rd July, 2012  
10:35AM**

Loki is as yet exhausted. He had sustained himself for the week and a half at Steven's side by drawing magic within himself, consuming what he could even as he expended much of his energy into cleaning Steven's blood of the terrible poisons that so plagued it, and every bit of Loki's body _aches_ for the exertion.

It will be a week at least before he feels entirely recuperated, but he hardly wishes anybody to fuss over him, not when he has brought this discomfort upon himself. Perhaps— Perhaps he might mention it to Henry McCoy. Perhaps even spend a few days in Westchester, amongst the X-Men…

Surely he is being presumptuous. But then, there is no harm in asking, and Xavier and McCoy both were ever welcoming. Hm. T'is a thought, at least.

There is a letter waiting upon Loki's desk, and he frowns as he examines the curling, delicate handwriting on the envelope – handwriting he does not recognize. It is not his mother's calligraphic hand, nor his brother's ugly scrawl, nor even his father's pragmatic scratch. This hand is positively beautiful, artful and with all manner of loving flourishes on the curve and cut of every letter. He takes a blade to the envelope, and he finds it to be a letter of several pages, so he pages through to the last line.

 _Yours with all my heart, dearest Loki,  
Fandral the Dashing, Son of Alvis_

Loki feels his heart in his throat as he sits heavily upon the edge of his bed. A _reply_. A reply! He had forgotten he had even penned his own letter, and Fandral has _replied_ …

He is almost too afraid to read the words upon the parchment. Almost. But Loki is many, many things – and a coward? That, he is not.

 **19th June, 2012  
20:09**

 _To Fandral the Dashing,_

 _I put pen to paper with great trepidation. Long has it been since we spoke face to face, and longer still since we had a conversation that lasted more than five minutes, and yet I find myself compelled to pen this epistle and send it on to you. I would assure you, forthwith, that I am both hale and hearty in my place upon Asgard. With the greatest of hospitality am I hosted amongst these Avengers, strange bedfellows though they might be for a villain such as I, and I write to you not to beg of you to engender some manner in which to release me, nor to manipulate you into taking some tack against Thor, as I have beseeched you in the past._

 _Nay, I write without especial intention in mind, I confess. It must seem strange, that I, a man ever concerned with how he might polish his words and put them forth into the world, should find himself with so dumb a tongue, and yet here I stand, at a loss._

 _I write to ask of you a question. No, that seems so simplistic – I write to you for much more than that, and yet, much less. I hold no illusions, Fandral: I do not believe you owe me aught, and if you see fit to burn this missive upon reading it, I shall not blame you._

 _First and foremost, I believe I owe you to apology. When I took on the throne after Odin fell into the Odinsleep, with Thor still stranded upon Midgard, I was wrong to be so angry, that you, Sif, Volstagg and Hogun should want to rescue Thor from his prison upon the planet; I was wrong to treat you so callously; I was wrong to send the Destroyer down toward you. All of this, I know, and I regret. I would not insult you with some explanation of what feelings prompted the outburst, for they are irrelevant – all that matters is that I know and understand why you might hate me, for what I did, and that I would offer you whatever apology you see fit. If you would ask of me anything I might offer – be it explanation, be it some service, even some humiliation or punishment you would have me suffer, I will submit to it. You may feel free to open this offer to Volstagg, Hogun and even Sif, too, if you so wish it, but I would ask you – as a favour to myself, undeserving as I am – not reveal the latter contents of this missive._

 _I am embarrassed by them._

 _No. Embarrassment is too simple a word, and yet as I write upon this page, the nib of my Midgardian page cutting the clean lines of script upon the parchment, I feel as if mere words will never be sufficient to explain the depth of feeling within me, the great well upon which I draw._

 _You may think me foolish, I think, in what I am about to say. You might be offended, or angry, or worse, you may find yourself laughing at the obscenity of my blossoming delusion. I know not!_

 _I wish I might meet you, face-to-face, but I feel assuredly I would become tongue-tied, as so often I became when we were alone together. Is it not strange, Fandral, that we can have so certain and so well-established an idea of the self we occupy, and yet be so different in the eyes of those that meet us?_

 _Often, I wept as a child, for I was not viewed as that which I sought to be. I did not measure to Odin's expectations, nor to Thor's, nor even to Mother's, at times; try as I might, I felt I could never be that which Asgard wanted to be, and even when I tried…_

 _But no. I am writing upon the page such nonsenses that I might procrastinate the truth I have so steeled myself to ask of you._

 _Fandral the Dashing, son of Alvis and Helena, I ask you simply, and I ask you plain: would you have considered us friends, before my betrayal? Is that how you envisaged our connection to one another?_

 _Such stark words on so pale a page. So damning. I ask you not out of some insecurity, merely— Look at my writings, Norns, this is more of a stream of consciousness than a letter, and yet I know I could not bear to redraft it. Undoubtedly, I would become a coward, and I would burn the papers entirely._

 _For so long, Fandral, I have lived under the impression that you thought me nothing more than the ugly thing at my brother's side, the wolf snapping at your heels. For centuries, end-to-end, I have believed that each of the kindnesses you ever offered me were little more than attempts to mock me, of which I could not fathom the joke; for millennia I have scorned your compliments as little more than japes and jests, intended to lull me into false security. I have called you a fop and a wastrel, a slattern and a dog; I have slapped away the hands that so gently touched my shoulder when I found myself upset; I have insulted you, and humiliated you, and treated you with such fury, and yet…_

 _This week, I found myself speaking with a fellow, of you. I told him of how cruelly you had treated me, in the past, how unkindly you viewed my company, and he held up a mirror to your treatment of me._

 _For all I described the cruel things you did to me, he read them back to me in a different tone. Where I saw only unpleasantness, and sadism, he echoed my words and said he espied only kindness on your part._

 _What am I to do? I feel as if my very heart has been cleaved open, and so here bleeds my heartblood upon the page, as ink._

 _Fandral, I beseech you. Confirm or deny that which I say._

 _For all these years, have I truly so mistreated the only man who thought himself my friend? Have I misjudged you so? If that be the case, why, I don't know how I might even begin to beg of your forgiveness. I think of times we have spent together, and short laughs exchanged in tense moments. I think of the times you would walk with me in Iðunn's orchard, telling me filthy jokes I determined not to laugh at, and always did, in the end. I think of waking from some battle with you at my sickbed, and my venomous tongue spitting insults at you until you left me to the solitude of my infirmary. So many memories brim in my eyes like unshed tears, and I wonder if I have truly misjudged you for so very long._

 _If that is true… I can give you nothing. I can do nothing to mend my behaviours. I can assure you of nothing except that I shall never do so again, for I am no longer of Asgard. If we were truly friends in your mind, Fandral, then I offer you my deepest apologies. I never deserved you._

 _And if I am wrong, if my fellow was wrong, if you truly meant to be cruel to me in all those encounters, why, nothing needs to change. You can go on hating me, and I shall go on knowing you are probably right to._

 _Fandral… Ever did I feel trapped upon Asgard, as a bird within a cage, surrounded by those that would mock its feathers and the cut of its beak, threaten to devour it whole. When I fled, when I would wander off to places unknown to Asgard, I did so with the knowledge that I would one day have to return, and so that day would come._

 _But when I spent time with you? Whether you thought of me as friend or enemy, Fandral, when we spent time together, Asgard felt less small. You made it feel bigger, more adventurous, less cloying. Whether you thought of me your friend or not, as your rival, your enemy, I would have you know that. Know that for all I tried to hate you, I found affection for you all the same._

 _(And you are charming. You know that, of course, but… Even I found you so_ _And if you truly wished to seduce me, all those times, know that I didn't refuse you out of cruelty. I merely didn't understand the veracity of your desires. Were things different- But I speak of times long past. Fires long doused, I'm certain.)_

 _And here I find I must end my ramblings. I ought not send this letter, I know as I finish it, and yet… And yet I feel that I must. It is the first step on the road of a difficult journey._

 _With all the respect I can muster, Fandral,  
From a man who would be your friend,  
Loki, son of Böl. _

**Mid Heyannir, Year Of The Boar (211)  
Some time after dusk.**

 _Dearest Loki, son of Böl,_

 _How my heart ached, to read your letter. What pangs it caused within my chest, within my belly, within my very core: what agony you have left me in, and yet, what sweet agony. Sweet, I say, for finally I know what you think of me. Truly, and with veracity, do I know what the ever-conniving mind of Loki Bölson (is that truly your name, now?) has made of me, and I delight in any truth that should pass between those stunning, pink lips of yours._

 _Oh, Loki._

 _I never realised, I confess, why it was that you so spurned my acts of affection, my sweet words, even my attempts to draw you into game or conversation – I thought perhaps you somehow disliked me over some sleight or other at times, but mostly, why, I admit, I believed it was simply your way of responding to me. I am overwhelming for many, after all, in my charms and my good looks, and we did share laughs, did we not? We did play games? We did speak, at times, with our hearts in our hands, with the truth on our tongues, with tears in our eyes?_

 _I'm certain we did._

 _Perhaps, in our youth, I ought have better comported myself where you were concerned. My tongue has always been gold instead of silver, and where yours was ever clever and slick, soothing hurt feelings, mending ills, cutting so quick to the bone, and mine— Clumsy. I know how to lay compliments at the feet of a pretty girl, and yet whenever I laid them at your feet, you would throw them back at me. I treated it as a game, at times: if you would not let me comment on the paleness of your skin or the curve of your thin lips, I would comment on your skill with your seiðr; if you reviled such commentary, I would comment on the set of your shoulder and the dip of your hips; when that heated your blood, I would comment on your fine words, your handwriting, your skill with blades, your heart. I would keep score as if we were fencing, and every comment that made you blush, or smile, or falter, I would note down as a hit._

 _Was that arrogant of me? Undoubtedly. Did I treat you as a game, a toy, a sport? Undoubtedly. But did I think of you as my friend? Undoubtedly_. _Did I love you? Most certainly. Do I? Even now. Perhaps I am too free with my love – certainly, you have told me so. But I am what I am, just as you are you. In all your multiplicity._

 _I know little of that which you were, when you were not upon Asgard. Sometimes – ordinarily when I had plied you with drink – you would let slip some detail, the name of some nebula, the pastime of some waking moment._

 _Hazy with the cherry wine of an Alfheim tavern one evening, when we were the last standing after our fellows were abed with women or asleep from the mead, we sat alone in a clearing beneath the blanket of shining stars, and you were so dizzy with drink that you let me lie with my head in your lap, and your fingers curled in my hair. You could scarcely say a word without slurring and tripping on it, but as I lay outstretched, feeling the cold of your fingers against my scalp, you told me such stories. They were banal. Uninteresting. The most boring I had ever heard. I loved every one._

 _You told me that for the thirty-six years you had last been absent from the realm of Asgard, you had been a miller on some planet I know not the name of, and you tended your own fields of grain. Every day, you would bring your grain into the mill, grain that you would grind through a great mechanism made of stone you had hewn yourself and lumber you had chopped down yourself, and you would carefully pack the flour into great sacks that you would sew shut and set upon the back of a cart drawn by a feline figure you insisted was not a horse, to be sold in town._

 _And you told me – and you told me this in a whisper, your eyes part-closed with reminiscence, and I stared at your clever lips as you told me things I knew you had never and would never share with others – that you would keep back one sack of flour for yourself, and as the dawn broke one morning a week, you would bake bread. You would massage the water, the dough, the yeast together, and you would separate the dough into pieces and you would braid it tightly into whatever figure took your fancy, and you told me… There were tears in your eyes. I still wake at nights, sometimes, thinking of the tears that pricked the corner of those blue pools, lolling fat and shining down your marble cheeks._

 _You told me you had just placed a loaf in the oven, and your hands were still dusted with the pink of the foreign wheat-flour, and you heard the bell upon your yard's gate ring, and you went outside, to see who would speak to the miller, and you saw Thor. You said that he stood there, Mjölnir loosely hanging at his side, and you saw the serious cut of his face and the set of his jaw, the seriousness in his eyes, and even as your goats flocked to his side and blissfully sought his touch against their strong skulls, you thought of the bread in the oven, with still an hour to bake, and he said, "It is time for you to come home."_

 _And you didn't want to come home. You didn't say as much, but I could see it written in the lines of your face, the crinkled skin around your eyes and the downturn of your mouth, and I wished in that moment that I could whisk you back to that lonely mill, where you had lived thirty-six years in complete solitude, so that I could watch you work the wheat and bake your bread, until you tired of my company._

 _I don't know if you remember that, Loki. You fell asleep with your face still wet and your back leaned against a great stone, and I lay in your lap, lost in thought, until the dawn came and I heard Volstagg calling for us from the town's edge._

 _Loki, the realm as Asgard was never kind to you. And you…_

 _Forgive me for saying so, my prince, but you never made it easy for yourself. I don't mean this as an insult, nor do I mean to wound your pride further than you say it has already been wounded, but Asgard always had its rules, its expectations. Sometimes, you would let slip to me how infuriating you found it, that you and I should be so similar, and yet you would be punished where I was praised, but as similar as we were, I was ever the better actor. It was not merely your magic that so offended the peoples of Asgard, Loki. It was not merely your seiðr, nor your womanly wiles on the battlefield, nor even your pale, pretty features and your hairless chin._

 _Nay, I think all of those flaws, as the Æsir might label them, would have been forgiven, if you had only seemed happy. You were not, of course – I know you were not ever happy upon Asgard, but for that forty years you spent at the side of the Lady Sigyn in the golden haze of that matrimony – but if you had only pretended, I believe the realm would have adored you as easily as Thor._

 _I pretend myself, do I not?_

 _I am glad you are finally away from Asgard. Do not take that statement as glad tidings that you are gone, for that is not what it is – I am glad for your sake you are free of this place, and that you need not return._

 _I love Asgard, Loki. I love its green meadows and its golden spires, its babbling brooks and seiðr-strong trees, its fruit and its blossom: I love our poetry and our prose, and I love the magic woven throughout this realm. And yet, perhaps because I so adore it, I cannot help but find fault in our ways._

 _The way Asgard has treated you, Loki, I could not be angry with you if you wished to raze the entire world to cinders. I don't know if anybody of Asgard has ever said this to you – I doubt it – but what the Council of the Gods saw fit to do with your children by Angrboða, that was wrong. It sat ill with me at the time, and I argued with those in the chamber, although I am not of the gods myself, and Freyr nearly expelled me for my disrespect in speaking where it was not my turn. That the palace gods had killed your wife, regardless of her Jötunn blood, that was wrong. That the Allfather had taken you from the Jötnar and kept you falsely all your life – that was wrong._

 _They were injustices, all of them, and they were forgiven and allowed and embraced because they happened to you, and not to anybody else. Loki… You never deserved a thing Asgard did to you. Thor speaks often to us of having you return home, one day, one day, and he ignores that everyone lies silent… He is blinded by his love for you, I think. He wishes only to see you at his side, and I think it wounds him to see the fault in Asgard, that it would reject you so entirely when he sees you as his brother in everything._

 _Asgard is a bloodthirsty place. Often, I think we swing our swords too soon; we drink too much; we talk too little. If we only spoke of that which ailed us, our true feelings, if we addressed that which made us so uncomfortable, perhaps all would be better. Too constrained_

 _Thousands of times, I have heard you called ergi. Well, Loki, I too am ergi. And the Allfather has said harsh words to me, at times, but never has he sewn shut my mouth, or cast me to the dogs, or murdered a woman I loved._

 _Ha, and you said you were rambling! Why, look at me go! Pages fly past my pen like summer breezes!_

 _How invigorating it is to pen such truths. How I feel my heart soar within me, that I might tell you something and you might actually listen. Loki, you ask for my forgiveness: I had forgiven you before you had so much as finished your plot. Perhaps I am mad! Perhaps I am in love. The two are just the same, in my mind. You were gripped, as anyone would be, by the fever of knowing your whole life had been naught more than deceptions. I cannot imagine how you felt, ever fleeing the realm of Asgard with the knowledge, the responsibility, that you had to return, and then to find that very tether had been false all along! I would have shattered in your position, Loki. I would have died._

 _You did neither._

 _I had intended for this letter to be a great deal more erotic than it is thus far. Reading it through, I feel it is not charged with the subtle sexual energy I intended: in your absence, Loki, it seems I am losing my touch. I feel in my breast my reluctance to lay too much seduction on the page, lest you think I am mocking you: I am not._

 _You were ever and anon a marvel amidst the jewels I could add so easily to my collection – diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, and yet there you were, a shining cloud of marble and obsidian, cold and obstinate, and yet lovely. The number of times I have brought maidens to tears singing a bardsong of your beauty, of your seiðr-spell, of our forbidden romance that never came to fruition—_

 _Sometimes I wonder what might have occurred, had I been firmer. Had I spoken more plainly to you. Had I treated our teasing liaisons like less of a game, but for so long I have been young, and foolish: I believed we had all the time in the world._

 _How wrong I was._

 _You speak of a fire doused, my friend, but the flames rage ever in my heart. You have always been the unattainable, the beautiful young fruit I could not pick from the boughs of that golden tree, and if you would have me upon Midgard, why, I shall visit you forthwith. I will appear on your step with flowers in my arms and a cape on my shoulder, and I shall drop to my knees right there, and worship you from thigh to navel with my golden tongue._

 _So long as you don't tell Thor. Not that I mean to be uncouth, but as much as some things have changed, I still have no desire to feel my good friend's hammer against my chest, were I to so defile his brother._

 _I would defile you in secrecy, from Thor, but in full view of anybody else!_

 _Ah, disregard every seductive word I say, if they hold no worth for you. Loki, I forgive you entirely, and I call us friends. Friends who, I believe, could have a very fruitful and rewarding sexual contretemps to our relationship, but that is neither here nor there._

 _Loki: you have my friendship for as long as you would wish it. A pesky attempt on my life here and there shall never, and has never, threatened that. Write me back soon. Pray, include some of these "photographs" I am so assured are popular upon Midgard – perhaps a nude portrait or three?_

 _Yours with all my heart, dearest Loki,  
Fandral the Dashing, Son of Alvis_

 _P.S. I would keep such portraits to myself, were you so kind as to include them._

 _P.P.S. Photographs of the skyline would also please me._

 _P.P.P.S. See attached parchment, inscribed with the first couplet I ever wrote in your honour._

 **3rd July, 2012  
10:48AM**

Loki reads every line of Fandral's letter six times apiece. He feels the cold rush of his own blood in his cheeks, feels his lips bitten to bruising, and despite himself, he cannot help but laugh in the emptiness of his bed chambers, holding the parchment pages to his chest and blushing like one of Fandral's maidens.

What flattery the _Dashing_ can pack onto a page, if he so chooses.

Loki laughs again, running a hand through his hair, and he reaches for the envelope. There is indeed another scrap of parchment, thinner and older – at least two thousand years old, Loki can see from the hastily scribbled date in the corner.

 _Awash in sun, shining as marble in the light, dear Loki plays his harp,  
And as I watch his fingers on its golden strings, I feel the same upon my heart._

"Terrible," Loki murmurs softly. "Ill rhymed, and with such bad rhythm." He holds the scrap of parchment to his chest, and feels his soft smile drag at his thin lips. He shall pen a reply soon, but for now?

Loki lies back upon the bed, feeling the parchment against his fingers, and he lets his eyes droop closed. For the longest time, he drifts, and despite the pain in his limbs and the exhaustion coiled within his body, he feels quite content.

 **3rd July, 2012  
11:02AM**

"These geneticists," Steve says quietly. He leans back in the armchair, and he looks at Nick's face on the computer screen – Skype, God, it's a damned marvel. Nat is sat beside him, cross-legged on Steve's footrest with a file in her lap, and she runs a hand through her hair, frowning down at the page. "Who were they with?"

"Don't know," Nick says, shaking his head. He rubs at his eye, dragging his palm over his cheek, and then he says, "The records said they were experimenting on mutant kids, but even with all the intel you guys pulled back, off the USB drive Romanov picked up, we haven't got details on where those kids are now. It's… Shit. It's fucked up."

"Why the secrecy?" Steve asks. "Why do we need to keep this so under wraps, Nick? You aren't even trusting SHIELD with this."

"I can't be completely sure," Nick says. His gaze is far away, focusing on something else, and he says, "SHIELD… There's good people here. But there's higher forces in control, and I don't know if I can trust them entirely. There's something up, something… Something else."

"You sure you're not just being paranoid?" Nat asks. She speaks cleanly, her expression serious, but something passes between her and Nick – from one spy to another.

"Could be," Nick says. "But I don't think I am." Steve thinks of the stuff he'd seen in the facility – corpses in the incinerator, strips of flesh samples laid out on pins, files and files of careful notes on the reaction of this body to _that_ treatment… He feels sick. Is this what the new fucking world leads to? More labs? More experiments?

"Keep us in the loop," Steve says. "You can trust us, we'll— We'll do what we can." Nick nods his head, slowly. "See you, Nick. Stay safe, you know? Take care of yourself." Something changes in the older man's face, and Steve doesn't think he misses the slight quirk of a smile there.

"You too, Rogers."

 **3rd July, 2012  
04:25PM**

Steve stares down at the page, reading over the neatly printed lines, as if Loki has copied out a form. He looks up at Loki, then down at the piece of paper, full with Loki's neat, orderly handwriting. "What's this?"

"It's a request for a leave of absence," Loki says.

"You didn't need to write it down. Or… Date it. You could just ask." Loki smiles, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"I wanted your permission, and ditto, Stark's. If I'm to be one of the Avengers, I ought hold myself to the standard of bureaucracy I wish to see in the world." Steve chuckles, reading over the form.

 _Reason for leave of absence: To recuperate health after classified mission._

 _Period of absence: 18 days, from the 5th of July to the 24th July._

 _Residence during absence: Xavier Institute For Gifted Children, Westchester, New York._

"What'll you be doing?" Steve asks. "When you're at the school?"

"Helping train the X-Men," Loki answers.

"Not teaching kids?" Loki hesitates, and then he delicately shrugs his shoulders, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. He looks sad, and Steve wonders if it was unkind of him, if it was cruel of him to ask – it figures Loki wouldn't be sure about wanting to teach kids. Losing your own, that's something you never get over, and Steve's seen the way Loki looks at other people's kids sometimes.

"I'll teach a class, if they need me to. But I'll primarily be working alongside the adults, imparting new skills, allowing them a new sort of training. I have discussed this with Professor Xavier at length." Loki sighs, shaking his head, and then he says, "I don't feel entirely comfortable, as a hero. I think perhaps I'm more useful elsewhere – you said in the beginning you were thinking of me as a man on the ground, a healer, even. I would like to try my hand at teaching."

"You been a teacher before?" Steve asks, curious, but even as he speaks he signs his name at the bottom of page, right next to the huge, curving lines of Tony's signature, already dry on the page. Loki's lips quirk into a smile, as if Steve has asked the question before, but he answers nonetheless.

"Yes," Loki says. "I've taught children, and adolescents, but my most rewarding time was probably the years I spent lecturing in applied physics." Steve furrows his brow, staring at Loki as he hands the letter back, and he feels himself chuckle, quietly. "What?"

"Nothing, you— I dunno. I guess it figures that after three thousand years you'd have time to read for a degree. How many you got?"

"Five equivalents to bachelor's degrees," Loki answers simply. "Three equivalents to masters, and seven PhDs."

"Seven, huh," Steve says, and he grins. "You know, Banner has seven PhDs." Loki nods his head, slowly. "Would you ever do it here? Academia?"

"I don't know," Loki says. His expression is a carefully blank mask, and Steve can see the want in his eyes, the vague _thought_ in that direction…

"You should," he says. Loki inclines his head, and he moves to leave Steve's office. Steve watches him go, and feels a sense of strange melancholy in his chest – what will it be like in Avengers' Tower, he wonders, without Loki? He's become such a natural, organic part of it all. Shaking his head, he turns his head back to the intel they'd gathered on their mission, and tries – unsuccessfully – to put Loki from his mind.

 **3rd July, 2012  
04:31PM**

 **Loki, 16:31  
Steven and Anthony have each approved my sojourn at X-Mansion. What a wonder, to be a teacher of, and a student of, magic at once.**

 **Stephen Strange, 16:31  
A wonder indeed, if it means I get to have more of you.**

 **Loki, 16:31  
Don't you mean see more of me?**

 **Stephen Strange, 16:32  
No.**

Loki's lip twitches, and he slides his phone into his pocket. He merely needs to take a short trip away from New York, now – not toward Westchester, but back to Alaska. It shouldn't take him long.


	18. Brought To Justice 18

**July 4th, 2012  
1:15PM**

" _Happy birthday, dear Ste-eve, happy birthday to you!"_ They're all around him, grinning widely, and Pepper pushes the cake across the table to him. It's absolutely ridiculous, some sweet thing covered in frosting and lit up with candles on the five points of the star. Of course they'd make in the shape of his shield – what else is there? He feels bad for the bitterness in the thought, and does his best to swallow it down.

"What, you couldn't fit enough on there, huh?" Steve asks, and Rhodey groans.

"See, I told you, I _told_ you he'd want ninety candles—" Tony laughs, shoving his friend in the chest, and Steve grins, looking back to the cake. He blows out air over the candles, putting all five of them out with one gust of breath. Loki is watching the whole proceeding with obvious fascination, and Steve turns to offer him a grin.

"What, no candles where you come from?"

"Candles are for lighting dark rooms, or lighting ceremonies. Not for sweet cakes." Steve smiles, and he pushes the cake back so that Nat can begin to cut it into pieces. He wishes Sam was here, vaguely – the guy's somewhere else, right now, Christ knows where, and on Independence Day, too…

"Don't be such a killjoy," Clint says, nudging Loki in the side, and to Steve's surprise, Loki doesn't shove him away, but instead chuckles quietly, and momentarily lays his hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint's eyes widen a little, his lips parting, and Steve sees the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat, sees the slightest anxiety there, before he relaxes into it.

It's a strange camaraderie, all of them sat around the table with pieces of cake in front of them, except Loki, who refuses a piece. "Just _try_ it," Steve says, his tone making it clear it's not an order. "For me? Please? It's my damned birthday, Loki." Loki groans, shaking his head, but he holds out his hand nonetheless, and he takes the fork Steve gives him. Cautiously, his nose wrinkling, he takes the bite of cake into his mouth, and his entire expression crumples entirely, disgust plain on his face. Coughing quietly, he hands the fork back, his hand over his mouth.

"That is revolting," he says, and Steve laughs again.

"It's strawberry," Tony says. "You don't like strawberry?"

"That is _not_ strawberry," Loki says, flicking out his tongue. "That is an amount of artificial strawberry flavouring paired with molasses."

"He's not wrong," Steve says, tasting the softness of the sponge on his tongue. "Store-bought, huh? Only the best for Captain America."

"Damn, you're sassy today," Tony says, and Steve grins, looking down at the cake.

"It's good, Tony, don't listen to Loki. Thank you. All of you." And that's that.

 **July 4th, 2012  
3:45PM**

Steve stands on the balcony, his hands against the cool steel of the bannister. There's some kind of shielding on the balcony up here, keeping him from view, and upstairs on the roof he can hear the party going on. A barbecue for Independence Day, superheroes and SHIELD higher-ups all mingling together, and Steve?

Steve is a damned soldier from Brooklyn. He did his time going to parties he didn't care for, hanging around people he had no business knowing, no desire to talk to. He doesn't feel like doing it any more.

"Steven," comes a voice from behind him, and he turns to see Loki. In his hands, there's a square box wrapped with metallic blue paper, tied off with a silver ribbon. Some of the others had given him presents earlier – Rhodey, Tony and Pepper had got him some subscription to some movie services, music, stuff like that; Nat had bought him a leather jacket; Clint had gotten him a beanie, uh, for some reason.

Loki hadn't given him anything. Not then, anyway.

"What's that?" he asks.

"A birthday gift," Loki says mildly, holding out the box to him. "People tell me it's customary."

"You didn't have to buy me anything," Steve says.

"No," Loki agrees. "So I didn't." Steve frowns, and he reaches out, taking the box out of Loki's hand. It's not very heavy, not very heavy at all, and he pulls the ribbon aside, pulling the lid off the box. The thing inside glints, and Steve reaches in, pulling it out. The pendant is artfully carved, and he looks up from it, staring out toward the ocean. The Statue of Liberty is bright in the summer sun, the discoloured copper brightly green, and her twin shines silver in his palm.

"You made this?" Steve asks. Stepping forward, Loki joins him against the balcony's edge, resting his elbows on it, and Steve looks at the outfit he's wearing. He's kinda understated it, just a green collared shirt tucked into skinny pants – _chinos_ , Nat's education supplies helpfully – but he wears a silver cuff on one of his wrists, and a pendant of his own shines around his neck. Steve recognizes Thor's hammer, even carved in silver the way it is. "Why the Statue of Liberty?"

"I've been reading about American history," Loki murmurs. "In my opinion, this is a nation built upon corpses, and bigotry. Even now, you spread your poison in other nations under the guise of spreading freedom." Steve turns his head, slowly, feeling the indignation burn in his chest. Loki sighs, and adds, "It's like Asgard. For some, a symbol of oppression, an imperial ruler setting out its iron grasp. But to others… Her name, Mother of Exiles. A pleasant flight of fancy, and one I find I can respect." Steve undoes the magnetic clasp on the chain, and he bends his head forward, fastening it around his neck. The silver is cool against his skin.

"Thank you," he says, quietly.

"I am no righteous patriot, proud of the land that bore me. I might not have faith in America, Steven…" Loki says delicately, and his hand touches against Steve's arm. "But I have faith in you."

"Thank you," Steve says, quietly, doing his best to put the force of his meaning into the word. It's a thoughtful gift, way more than he'd expected, and Loki hadn't _bought_ it – he'd just gone and made it, pure silver. Is that why he'd been mining up in Alasksa? "They miss me up there?"

"A few people have asked after you," Loki says, giving a slow nod of his head. "Some high-ranking SHIELD officers… Somebody called Pierce. Truly an awful name. It's a verb."

"So it Roger," Steve mutters.

" _Roger_?" Loki repeats, tilting his head. He tastes the word on his tongue, and then he shakes his head. "No, the Allspeak isn't giving me anything – I thought it was simply a name. What is it? To roger?" Steve thinks of Peggy sat at a piano, telling dirty jokes to the Howling Commandos as they sat around the bar.

"Look it up," he advises.

"This is the last time we'll see one another for some time," Loki murmurs.

"It's only three weeks."

"Perhaps." Steve frowns. When he looks to Loki, the other man offers him a wan smile. "I'm not saying I'll never return. Merely that I may find I like it there – one never knows. And the Avengers Initiative…" He trails off. "It's a big group of individuals. I fear Anthony's recruitment is not proceeding as he had desired. The group will fracture, in the end."

"You think?" Steve asks, reaching up and touching his fingers to his jaw. The weight of the chain is comfortable around his neck, and he pushes the pendant under his shirt, feeling it rest cool and heavy against the top of his sternum. "The Howling Commandos was the name of the band I was in, back in the forties. God, they were… They were real champs, all of 'em. Jim, Dum Dum, Pinky, Happy, Jacques, Gabe, James, Falsworth… And Bucky."

"I recognised perhaps _half_ of those as normal Midgardian names," Loki says, and Steve is surprised by how much it makes him smile.

"Yeah, well," Steve mutters, " _Volstagg_ doesn't sound like much of a name to me either."

"Nor I, in truth."

"We were… It's different, in the army. We were all working off each other, we were all completely in-sync. And don't get me wrong, I think we're a great team, in the field, but here, in the Tower, I— I don't know. We're all smart people. We share laughs. But it's not the same." And God, doesn't he wish it was? Doesn't he wish he could trust Bruce with his life at a moment's notice, outside of a fight? Doesn't he wish he could tell Clint about his mom dying, or Tony about his memories of Howard? Doesn't he wish it would feel _organic_ , instead of something where they all have to stay happy around each other all the time, 'cause once they fight, they fall apart?

"You were united against a wider force," Loki says simply. "The Howling Commandos marched upon Nazi Germany, a greater enemy with which you were at odds. In the field, with your Avengers, that sensation is momentarily replicated, but outside of it, you are not. You are merely individuals who come together in times of crisis. There is nothing wrong with that, not in my opinion. But Clint and Anthony, they would make of this his family. Bruce, his first friends in a long time. Natasha, a new army with which to align, but she lacks sentiment. She will turn to SHIELD when the Avengers prove unstable; Clint will proceed with his own vigilanteism. Bruce will settle in a laboratory, and Anthony… Anthony has other concerns that might take up his time."

"You're real perceptive," Steve says, quietly. "That why you're bailing out now? 'Cause it's doomed to fail?"

"No," Loki murmurs. There's something stiff about his marble features, tugging at his lips, and he levels his gaze at Steve, looking at him seriously. "Is that what you think, Steven? That I'm _bailing_?"

"Nah, I didn't mean it like that," Steve says, shaking his head. "Just— Why do you feel the need to go? Genuinely?" Loki considers the question for a few moments, his expression quietly pensive.

"I need space to grow," he says, simply. "Isn't that what you want of me?"

"If that's what you want." Loki frowns slightly, his brow furrowing. His princely features change when he frowns, showing a kind of graceful consternation, and it sure as Hell isn't anything Steve's used to seeing. Even when he shows his feelings, they're masked, tempered – God knows it'd be just terrible if royalty showed some real depth of feeling.

"I've only ever wanted to be left alone, if I'm perfectly honest," he says softly.

"You think you'd be left alone if you were King of Asgard?"

"I never wanted to be King of Asgard," Loki says, simply. "I merely wanted my father to recognize I would have been as capable as Thor. I was the second son, Steven – I never expected the throne, but I would have been a good ruler. Different to Thor, but skilled in my own right, moral in my own way. I would have safeguarded the people of Asgard, even though they only ever showed me scorn, and disgust, because it would have been my duty."

"And what do _you_ know about duty?" Steve asks. He can't help the way it sounds, even if his tone isn't cruel or unpleasant – it's just… Weird. Loki, a God of mischief, and deceit… _And other things_. _You read those files, didn't you? Saw the things he is worshiped for on other planets? Truth, and storytelling, and motherhood. Good things, righteous things. He isn't as simple as he seems._

"More than you think." Those four words hang between them, heavy on the air, and Steve sets his jaw.

"You're right," he says. Loki tilts his head, and Steve adds, "About the gap. Three weeks, maybe more. We should blow this place, go somewhere else." Loki's lips quirk up at the sides, and he shows his teeth.

"Really?" Loki asks, amusedly. "And you would avoid a party in the honour of this _great nation_?" Loki's sarcasm is thick on his tongue, and it rankles, but Steve knows it isn't directed at _him_. America isn't perfect: he knows that. But it could be. One day. "Who knows naught of duty now?"

"That ain't my duty," Steve says. "Up there, that's… That's hot dogs and sunshine. I think they can go ahead without me." Loki offers him his hand, and Steve frowns, taking hold of it. He watches Loki step onto the thin air around them, and he exhales, softly – God, that _never_ gets old.

"Come on," Loki says.

"What?"

"Take a step," he insists, and Steve's lips part: slowly, he lifts his foot, setting it down… Six inches off the ground. There's his foot, on the _air_ , and he feels it hard under his weight like he's still on the ground, and he can't help the amazed laugh that comes out of his mouth, and Loki smiles down at him until Steve Skywalks up to meet him. "How is that, my friend, for a birthday present?"

"Best I ever had," Steve says breathlessly. He wishes he could kiss Loki, in this moment, wishes he could press their mouths right together and just—

"Let's walk out to Coney Island," Loki suggests.

"Coney Island?" Steve repeats. "You serious?"

"Why not? I'll win you a stuffed animal of some kind." Steve stares into Loki's eyes, searching for some kinda joke, but there isn't one, or at least, there doesn't seem to be. He's completely serious.

"Sure," he says, and he stares down at the city below them, visibly set along a grid of buildings, the cars _tiny_ where they zoom one way and the next— Magic. It's just… Magic.

 **July 5th, 2012  
09:12AM**

"And here, students, we have a new member of staff. This is Loki Bölson, and he's going to be here for the next few weeks. He's helping the X-Men train, as well as helping Doctor McCoy work on a few of his projects. Loki, do you want to say a few words?" Loki looks out among the mutant children. There are around seventy of them, seated cross-legged upon the grass of the Westchester gardens – there had been some few hundred of them when he had been here before, but summer is beginning in earnest now, and many of the children are spending time with their families across the United States.

Loki stands, slowly, and he looks at them all. So young as they are, and yet, so varied in their complexions, their body types. There is a young girl that looks to be made of blooming flowers, and another made of darkest crystal; another still is wolfish about his ears and teeth, and he makes Loki's _heart_ ache, as he thinks of Fenrisúlfr and Valí each, his sons…

"You may call me Loki," he says quietly, offering the children a warm smile. "I am not as you are, a mutant, but nor am I a human. I come from a different planet to this one, named Jötunheimr. My powers lie in the realm of sub-atomic energy transference and matter manipulation." In response to sixty-eight blank stares, even from the handful of teenagers sprawled at the back of the gathered cabal, he coils fire in one palm and ice in the other: "That is to say… Magic." Some of the children laugh and clap, and others merely smile, or look at him with curiosity. "Pray, do feel free to ask me any questions, or simply to chat with me in the corridors." He gives a polite bow, and then he steps back to his seat beside Henry, feeling the other man's bulk beside him.

As Xavier goes on to speak to the children about the summer program, Henry murmurs, "Well, I think that went quite well."

"No, no," Loki agrees. "None of them screamed, or tried to attack me…" Henry chuckles, and the two of them settle in silence until Xavier's address is complete. The children do have classes in the summer, Loki has been told, but they are lighter and tailored to the desires of the children, allowing them to pursue their own specialist interests. Some of them are so _young_ – Loki had scarcely realised before, but two of them are not even _five_ yet… And well cared for, Loki sees, but to cast them out for what they are, why, it pierces his very heart to think of.

"Loki, is it?" Turning his head, expecting to meet someone the same height as himself, Loki falters, and then looks down. The man is short indeed, scarcely reaching Loki's chest, and in the corner of his mouth he holds a cigar, the scent of it thick and foul-tasting upon the air, making Loki's nostrils flare in disgust. That makes the man grin. "Ha, sensitive nose, huh?"

"Indeed," Loki says, nodding his head. "And who might you be?"

"Logan," he says.

"The Wolverine?" Loki's brow furrows. Certainly, he has researched the X-Men in total, and the Wolverine had been among them, but this fellow, he's simply so…

"You thought I'd be taller?" Logan asks.

"Well— Yes. And less handsome." He expects a flinch, a shift away, but none comes: instead, the Wolverine slowly takes the cigar out of his mouth, exhaling a grey cloud. He grins.

"You do anything to any of those kids… I'll kill ya. You understand?"

"Oh, entirely," Loki says, his tone reasonable. "And short of killing me, why, _Logan_." Loki's hand is on his chest, feeling for the heart: there it is, warm and beating at that fast, Midgardian pace, to the left side of his chest. What wonderful _heat_ there is there, and such strength… "Do feel free to do whatever you like to me."

"Guess your nose isn't _that_ sensitive," Logan mutters. Loki frowns.

"Pray, explain what you mean." Logan leans in, closer. Loki doesn't merely smell the tobacco and its smoke, now, but instead smells _sweat_ , and some sort of metal… Something strange, foreign.

"You stink like Stephen Strange, kid. And I don't grab what isn't mine." Logan moves away from him, walking away, and Loki's lip twitches, even as a lilac flush makes itself known in his cheeks.

"Consider that a lesson learned," Loki calls over his shoulder, and he hears Logan's laugh. Putting his hands into the pockets of his light trousers, Loki begins to take a walk over the grounds, feeling the grass beneath his feet. There is a warm breeze coming from the north-east, and Loki takes in the scent of fruits growing in the woods, and fresh-running water… There is a lake somewhere close. He shall walk out to it.

He thinks of the night previous: Natasha and Clint had met them at Coney Island, as Loki had organised beforehand, and it had been rather… Fun. Three genetically superior individuals and an ex-"carnie" had made quick work of the majority of the games, but it had been fun all the same. Loki had quietly taken his leave as Steven had traversed the Hall of Mirrors with Clint and Natasha, and spent the night in Greenwich. Stephen Strange had laid him out upon a marble altar, pinned by his wrists, neck and ankles, and had channelled such power through him, using him as a conduit for some ritual or other, that Loki had been _dripping_ for his touch by the end of it, and even now he feels some of the exhaustion of the magic in his veins.

No wonder Loki smells of him.

Clint Barton has the most to gain from the Avengers, and the least to lose. Loki is glad to push him to form some bond with Steven. Clint Barton… What is this sensation in Loki's chest? Burning, and painful, not entirely unlike shame. T'is guilt.

How droll.

 _"I won't teach the children any classes," Loki had said, sharply, a little more sharply than he had intended. "I will answer questions asked of me, but that is all." Xavier had chuckled, leaning back in his seat and setting his chin upon his hand. "And I shall not submit to any examination in the name of my health."_

 _"Very well."_

 _"I will not join your X-Men in the field. I am here in my capacity as educator, and trainer."_

 _"Alright."_

 _"And I expect to be treated with the respect I am due. I shall be called by my name, and naught else, by any of your compatriots."_

 _"I'll be sure to pass that on."_

 _"I want for my own quarters, with a good lock upon them. I shall not be disturbed when I am in repose, and I would insist upon my privacy unless we are in the midst of a life-threatening crisis."_

 _"Of course." A long pause had drawn out between them, and Loki had scowled down at Xavier for a long few moments._

 _"Is there anything you'll say no to?" he had demanded._

 _"Only anything that seems unreasonable."_

 _"I want a horse."_

 _"Fine." Loki had laughed, turning his head away and shaking his head. "You don't want one?"_

 _"I'll survive without. I would ask, however, that I be permitted Wednesdays off: I have a standing appointment. And if you will require my services of an evening, I should request I be notified in advance. I have—" Loki had trailed off, uncertain how to describe his link to Strange, and Xavier had smiled softly._

 _"A standing appointment?" Xavier had asked. Despite himself, Loki had smiled._

 _"Yes," he had agreed, simply. "Let's call it that."_

 _"I'm glad," Xavier had murmured. "Come, let me show you to your room."_

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Loki reaches into it, sliding it out. He glances at the message, frowning.

 **Steven Rogers, 9:22  
You just disappeared last night. Tony says you're gone.**

 **Loki Bölson, 9:23  
You were having a good time with Clint and Natasha, were you not?**

 **Loki Bölson, 9:23  
I used a dimensional transitway some minutes after dawn.**

 **Steven Rogers, 9:23  
Dimensional transitway, huh? Thought they made you feel sick.**

 **Loki Bölson, 9:24  
I've been practising. I wouldn't say I've perfected the process, but certainly I have vastly improved upon it. Magic is so complex an art, so wide-reaching and so infinite in possibilities, that one is never a master, but one can always practise.**

 **Steven Rogers, 9:25  
Thanks for last night. It was great, really. **

**Loki Bölson, 9:25  
You're most welcome. Any time, as they say.**

There is no response. Loki feels no small amount of relief.

 **July 6th, 2012  
11:15AM**

"On your feet, Summers!" Loki snaps, and Summers remains on the ground, his hands spread against the dirt, breathing heavily. "Come come, surely you're not defeated so swiftly? What manner of X-Man are you, that you should so easily stand down?"

"It's training," Summers mutters. "The stakes aren't that high." Loki kicks him square in the jaw, and Summers goes flying backwards, landing hard against the floor.

"Take this _seriously_ ," Loki growls. "It's _training_ – of course it's training! How are you to improve if you will not fight against me? You do everything to defend yourself except use your power upon me! You cannot fear you will _hurt_ me, boy – I am your enemy!" Summers sits up on the dirt floor, spitting blood onto the ground. The Danger Room – now apparently lacking its namesake – is a huge, warehouse-like basement with high ceilings and sand as its carpet.

Summers gets to his feet, and his fingers go to the visor.

Loki grins.

 **July 6th, 2012  
8:15PM**

Loki holds the crystal in his palms, feeling it burning and searing at his flesh, threatening to eat its way through to the bone. "Control it," Stephen says, _boredom_ ringing in his tone, and Loki grits his teeth so hard against one another that he feels them _creak_ , forcing magic into his palms to try to control the energy of the Gigas Stone. "You're not trying."

"I _am_ trying!" Loki retorts, and then he cries out as the flesh of his left palm gives way entirely, letting the red crystal dig into his bone and gather there like a mould. He tries to concentrate his power, tries to mould the crystal to his will, but it will not be reined in, will not be moulded— His groan of pain begins low in his throat. "I _can't_ , it hurts—"

"Use the pain," Stephen murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of Loki's ear. "Follow it to the very centre of the Gigas Stone."

"What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" Loki demands, but even as he speaks he closes his eyes, tracing the agony burning in his bones, in his flesh… He can feel the spear of crystal that has worked its way inside his body, the way it has forced itself through the skin and muscle of his hand, and yet he finds if he lets out a tendril of seiðr, like so—

Sighing in relief, Loki pushes his seiðr out, carefully disentangling his flesh from the crystal's biting embrace, and he looks in fascination as the energy coils about the little crystal, rendering it impotent. It shines red in the light, like a ruby, and he almost smiles.

"Very good," Stephen says. "And it only took you forty minutes. Now we can begin."

"Begin?" Loki repeats, and Stephen touches his shoulder. Stephen's office bleeds away around them, and the two of them stand upon a great expanse of all-encompassing blackness: before them, some hundred feet in diameter, the true Gigas Stone rests. The crystal in Loki's hand is drawn away from him, returning to the stone that bore it, and Loki stares up at the shining red crystal, seeing the way it shivers and shimmers as it moves… Organic crystal, then. Hungry for flesh.

"Ready?" Stephen asks.

"No," Loki replies, and he takes off at a run.

 **July 7th, 2012  
6:15AM**

"You really did a number on Summers yesterday," Logan says. Loki resurfaces, the lakewater dripping away from his hair and skin, and Loki frowns at him as he swims to the edge of the lake. "So why're you the one limping?"

"I'm not _limping_ ," Loki murmurs, coming to the edge of the still waters. He puts his hands upon the bank, gripping at the grass to draw himself out of the water, and he sits upon the edge. Water comes away from him in clouds of steam, and he draws his tunic on over his naked body. "It's magical exertion, that's all – leaves the body slightly tender."

"Uh huh." Logan is standing with his hands in the pockets of his ugly, camouflage trousers, raising his eyebrows "You kinda kicked Scottie's ass, so I feel like the exertion didn't come from him."

"Perhaps not. I have training of my own to complete."

"That's why you wanted this little vacation, huh? You train us, someone else trains you?"

"Something like that." Loki arches his back as he stands, bending slowly backward until his hands are upon the ground, and with _ease_ , Loki stands like so, his legs slipping into the splits. He drops onto his feet again, and he feels the light burn in his muscles – it soothes his aches somewhat to do so.

"Very nice," Logan says. "Very bendy. You ever meet Reed Richards?"

"Ought I?"

"Nah. Guy's a dick." Loki laughs.

"Not that I don't appreciate this scintillating conversation, my dear friend, but is there a reason you've come to collect me?"

"Prof X wants ya. Says he needs intel."

"As if he couldn't call for me himself," Loki murmurs, tapping his temple sardonically, and Logan tips his head back toward the house. Loki falls into step beside Logan – no mean feat, with how short the little man's legs are – and he lets leggings bleed onto his body, his boots forming around his bare feet as his hair coils itself into a bun at the back of his head. "This is about Nevada."

"I hear it's classified," Logan says. "Big state secrets."

"Good thing neither of us is American, then."

 **July 7th, 2012  
6:31AM**

Loki glances over the file, paging through its details. There are photographs, _ugly_ photographs, thick with blood and scattered with tissue. Worst of all is the look on their faces, desperate children seeking only escape from the horror of what they are going through… Every one of them a mutant. Every one of them expendable in the eyes of the geneticists experimenting upon them.

"I already knew about this," Loki says, closing the file shut. "The laboratory was destroyed whilst we infiltrated it. All of the children were already gone: there were only corpses, and scientists, and soldiers."

"Yes, so we've been made aware," Xavier says, nodding his head. But by whom? "You and Rogers were both missing for some weeks, after Nevada. I saw the way that he was injured, his skin already turning colours, changing within seconds—"

"How?" Loki asks. Xavier reaches up and touches his temple. Loki hears Logan snigger. "Norns, no wonder half the mutants in the world despise you."

"Because of my telepathy?"

"Because of that infuriating little gesture."

"If only," Xavier says, humourlessly. "Now, I need to ask a question of you. Were you healing Captain Rogers? In the time the both of you were missing?" Loki nods his head, slowly. He shifts his position in the chair, holding the file in his lap, and he looks to Logan. Logan is seated on Xavier's desk as if he belongs there. "Could you heal a child? Work the toxin out of their body?"

"Perhaps," Loki says, "but I was healing Rogers for days on end, and it took a great deal of time and energy, and Rogers had only been assailed minutes before I began to heal him. Moreover, his serum was at odds with the chemical assault. To those who had received such _treatments_ over a period of time, and particularly upon a young body…"

"Would ya try?" Logan asks. It is strange – Loki feels the order of Steve's coiling in the back of his mind, the force to _help_ people, _save_ people, but it seems distant. It's an old instruction now, settled in the back of his directory like a file in a cabinet, and he finds it is losing his sway over him. Even still, the answer comes to him easily.

"Of course." Why leave a child in pain? What reason could he possibly have to do so?

"We ought to breakfast, then," Xavier says. "Who is next upon your training list today, Loki?"

"Me," Logan says. Xavier lets out a low, amused sound, and Loki hands the file back to him. He doesn't wish to see those images again.

"Now that," Xavier murmurs, "I am excited to see."

 **July 7th, 2012  
7:45AM**

"What?" Logan asks as he stands at the other end of the Danger Room. He's wearing his little get-up, so much _yellow spandex_ , and when Loki turns to glance up at the viewing window, he sees that Xavier is not alone in watching them, as he had been yesterday. Summers is seated beside Xavier, holding an icepack to the shoulder he had refused to allow Loki to heal, and Ororo Munroe stands beside him, her expression serious. Then the tall man, made of steel – Piotr Rasputin – and his wife, Katherine. "You ain't got no snarky little line as we get started? No attempt at a joke?"

"What is it you wish for me to say, Logan? _Spank me, Daddy?_ " Logan's teeth are _savage_ , and even through the mask, Loki can see he's excited to fight. Loki rather knows the feeling.

"Heh. I'm gonna make you feel that one."

"If you say so," Loki whispers – he knows Logan can hear it.

And then, the fight begins. Loki will happily allow Logan this – the man is skilled. Loki had decided from the beginning not to focus overmuch on his seiðr, and instead to allow each of the X-Men to face him with a limited skillset: his physical abilities, his illusions, and his shapeshifting.

It was the latter that had been Summers' downfall, but Logan does not back down when Loki fashions himself after a monster or after a familiar face: he remains focused, and he doesn't shy away from seriously injuring Loki, or even trying to kill him.

Loki responds in kind.

"Do you yield?" he asks, when he has his hand around Logan's neck, pinned in the dirt with his knee hard against the soft, yielding flesh of his belly – and then, seconds later, when the Wolverine has three of his claws pressing into the hard flesh of Loki's chest, threatening to break the skin, Logan retorts.

"Do you?" And then Loki is gone.

The thing about seiðr is that it allows one to manipulate matter and energy at its basest level. One can transform copper into gold, for example, by manipulating it on the sub-atomic level; one conjures objects by transferring latest energy and using to create matter from scratch; one can even, if one's magic is well-developed, if one has the skill, turn matter into _energy_.

"If you are entirely based in the realm of the physical, Logan," Loki says, and his voice comes from everywhere at once: he sees the way Logan shifts and turns his head, trying to find him, but Loki is all around him, hovering upon the air. He ought have done this _hours_ ago, for like this, why, there is no pain at all. "How do you fight a foe that is not?"

Logan laughs, and he drops down in the dirt on his back, his arms crossed over his chest: already, the claws have been put away. "I guess I ask for help." And here Loki is once more, on the physical plane, and he smiles, putting his hand down to help the other up.

"You could learn from him," Loki calls up to the viewing window. He can't _quite_ be certain, but—

He thinks Summers is rolling his eyes.

 **July 7th, 2012  
9:12PM**

"What, no torture this evening?" Loki asks, softly.

"You defeated the Gigas Stone in one night," Stephen says mildly, pouring him another glass of wine. They sit on the roof of his mansion in Greenwich, and Loki takes up the glass, taking a sip as he looks up toward the sky. It is a cloudy night, and above them he sees only a haze of grey and black, hiding the stars from view. "That ought have taken you weeks. Evidently, I underestimated the extent to which you are comfortable utilising raw magic. Therefore, we should broaden your magic in the way that _mine_ is broadened. Teach you spells."

"I know spells," Loki says. "So complicated, so many words and symbols… So slow!" Magic-users like Loki are rare for a reason, however. Utilising raw magic as he does, drawing it inside himself and adjusting it with telepathy, with the power of thought alone – it is fast, and based entirely in one's willpower. With nary a pause, one can perform magic one has never performed before, so long as one's focus is clear. But spells… Spells draw only a _little_ magic into the body, instead running it along pre-established pathways laid out in the scheme of the universe. Every culture has its own concept of ritual and spellwork, harnessing latent magic energy in different ways – it's a different skillset entirely.

And yet, Loki thinks, Stephen _is_ right. He must reach for new territory, if he is to expand his magic. He must _tax_ himself, do something new… Loki thinks of the way he had caught Logan earlier, bleeding himself from the physical plane entirely. An idea strikes.

"No spells," Loki murmurs. "New branches of magic. Things I haven't tried before."

"What haven't you tried before?" Loki hesitates, just for a moment. "The books you gave me… You've played with all manner of magicks," Stephen says, slowly. "You've a skillset in manipulation of every element; you excel at conjuration; illusion gives you no troubles; restoration comes naturally to you; transfiguration is—"

"Divination," Loki interrupts him. "Divination and reality manipulation. Two schools of magic I've never touched." Stephen stares at him, his head tilting slowly to the side, and he shifts forward, his hand on Loki's knee.

" _Never_?" he repeats. "Why not?" Loki considers lying. He could lie very easily, if he wished to. Loki is a being of multiple selves, and reality does not exist in his mind as it does in that of others: his very own memories blur and integrate with one another, confused between one identity's destiny and the next. Destiny itself is confusing, a mix of visions of what is to come, what ineffably and inescapably _will_ occur, and potential futures, potential realities: pure potential.

"Fear," Loki answers. Stephen blinks at him.

"I wasn't under the impression you _feared_ much," he murmurs. Loki laughs, running a hand through his hair.

"Oh, no, I do," he murmurs. "Fear has become a natural state of being for me, if I'm quite honest. No spells, Stephen. I'll retain my own style of magic, and— And we'll begin with divination."

"How do you want to start?" Stephen asks, lowly. "We could start with tea leaves, or perhaps use a mirror to—"

"No, no," Loki murmurs. "You have a great deal of psychotropic ingredients lying about your mansion, I imagine. Let's brew a potion." A long pause passes between them, and Stephen laughs, quietly.

"You want to get high together?" he asks. He doesn't seem especially enthused.

"For the sake of this reality," Loki admits, "it's probably best only _I_ get high for now. Someone needs to keep me in check, no?" He can see the reluctance, the uncertainty on Stephen's face, and he leans in closer, draws his hand over the other man's face, feels the stubble on his cheeks, feels his warmth, feels his energy _crackle_ beneath the surface of his skin. "And, you know, this is only theoretical – I'm hardly an expert – but… Sexual ecstasy, I hear, only heightens one's capacity for visions as one cleaves oneself open for implications of the future. You could do whatever you wished with me… I'd be positively _insensible_." Loki sees Stephen's lips part, and he is glad he leaned so heavily upon a sultry, seductive tone… Besides, pleasure will ground him as much as it will bring him to greater heights; pain, ditto. "I can see it pleases you. Imagine me, entirely naked, slathered in golden oils and so intoxicated I can barely do more than babble, my body loose-limbed and pliant for you to play with at your leisure, my mind on another plane entirely…"

"You're a natural salesman," Stephen murmurs. "Were you a market hawker in another life?"

"Oh, many times," Loki assures him, and he leans in for a kiss. Stephen's tongue slides easy against his own, his lips pressing hot against Loki's own, and then Stephen draws away and _bites_ , his teeth digging hard against Loki's neck and making Loki arch into the pain. Loki's skin is hard as stone, and he feels the crackle of Stephen's magic strengthening his teeth, letting him _bite_ —

Stephen leans back, Loki's blood dripping lilac over his chin, and he lets out a short hiss of pain. "Is your blood acidic?" he asks.

"Have I never mentioned that?" Loki asks, even as steam comes away from Stephen's burning lips, and he laughs at Stephen's moan of pain, reaching out to heal it with a burst of his own magic. "Better?"

"Better." Stephen smiles, and he looks at Loki _softly_ , just for a moment. "I've never wanted something as much as I want you. The very _moment_ that connection is broken between you and Rogers, I… We could consume one another. Two suns crashing into one another. A perfect explosion."

"That sounds incredibly toxic and unhealthy," Loki says, mimicking what Sven would say, undoubtedly, if he knew. Stephen frowns, and Loki grins at him. "Let's do it twice." Stephen surges to kiss him again, and Loki _crumbles_ beneath it.


	19. Brought To Justice 19

**July 5th, 2012  
10:01AM**

Eanna McDonagh is a tall, lanky man in his late fifties. He's got an Irish name, but he wears a kippah on the back of his head, and he wears a thick, woollen cardigan over a pressed white shirt, tucked into tan trousers… And sandals. Sandals over socks. Steve can't help but grin at him, and McDonagh enthusiastically shakes his hand, gesturing for him to come into his office.

Despite the grimy little building McDonagh's practice is in, the office itself is warm and open. Light shines in through the wide windows, and it is cluttered: books are stacked on nearly every surface, and although two of the walls are neatly ordered, holding McDonagh's two university diplomas, a few framed photographs of his family and some plaques, the main wall is _a mess_. Steve looks at it, taking a slow step forward, and he lets his gaze flit over it, fascinated. Across the wall are pieces of paper, each inscribed with a few lines – some of them are poetry, some of them are Bible verses, and some are just quotes.

"All my patients leave them," McDonagh says cheerfully, his hands in his pockets. "They, uh, they're all things that helped them, one way or another." Steve reaches out to one of the pieces of paper, where the words are printed in neat Hebrew or Yiddish, and then printed again in English.

" _No sin is so light that it may be overlooked. No sin is so heavy that it may not be repented of._ Moses Ibn Ezra." Steve recognises the handwriting. "I didn't know Pietro Maximoff was one of your patients."

"Agh, only sometimes," McDonagh says, shrugging his shoulders. "He mostly goes to Rabbi Greenberg in times of crisis."

"That must be nice," Steve murmurs. He's got faith, sure he has. He's read the Bible. But he hasn't been to church… He hasn't been to church since the last funeral he went to – his mom's funeral. "You're Irish too, right?"

"With a name like mine? Aw, yeah," he says. "Family came over during the Famine. Jews and Irish, we're not so different, when it comes down to it. The biggest difference is, uh, the Irish don't usually talk about their feelings much. Jews, we kvetch and kvetch." Steve laughs, quietly, and he thinks of Bucky.

"My best friend was Jewish," he says. McDonagh nods, slowly, and he gestures for Steve to take a seat on a comfortable armchair. He's almost grateful – he'd been a little worried about lying down on a couch, and he'd rather sit up. McDonagh sits down across from him.

"You mind if I take notes?" he asks, quietly. "I won't share them with anybody, just, uh, keep 'em right here."

"That's fine," Steve says in a low voice, and he puts his hands on his own knees. "How does this— How does it work?"

"Well," McDonagh says, looking thoughtful. His eyes are a pale, watery blue, and despite his age, there are still a few auburn hairs showing in his short, grey stubble – although he's balding on the top of his head. "Basically, therapy like this… It's to provide you with an outlet. You can just talk to me about whatever's bothering you this week, and I'll listen. I won't give you on advice on situations, but I can give you advice and techniques on how to stay calm, how to work out complicated questions… See, a therapist's job isn't to fix your life, or fix your brain, or what have you. It's to equip you with the toolset for you to do it yourself. That make sense?"

Steve nods. His hand goes up to the chain around his neck, feeling the silver against his thumb, cool and heavy.

"So, Steve," McDonagh says quietly. "How are you settling in to life in the 21st century?"

"Well, I guess," Steve murmurs. "No TB. No scarlet fever. Turn signals, those are pretty cool, great idea." McDonagh is watching him, and his notepad remains completely empty. Steve draws his tongue over his lower lip, slowly, and he turns to look toward the window. Outside, on the windowsill, a pigeon coos quietly, and then flies away. "Everything feels much bigger than it used to. You walk in the street, and there's so many people… Nobody knows each other. I dunno, it used to be… Back in Brooklyn, it used to feel like we were villages as part of the city, you know? You knew all your neighbours. Now, Christ, it's… It's different."

"Do you feel lonely?" McDonagh asks in a gentle tone.

"Not exactly," Steve murmurs. He drops the pendant under his shirt again, and says, "It's just different. I have an apartment, but most of the time I stay in the tower with the other guys. And it's… I guess I thought being with the Avengers would be like being in the army again, like being with the Howling Commandos. It isn't. We're all too different. None of us really share anything in common, as a group, except that we've all got skills. And who hasn't got skills, these days?" He bounces his knee in place, suddenly full of nervous energy, and he adds, "And I'm not knocking any of them. Just— None of them have any discipline. Stark is a wild card, jumps around from one idea to the next. Natasha always has another motive. Clint, God, the guy's _depressed_ , and Bruce is… Bruce is dangerous. And I feel so damned terrible saying all that, because they're good people, they're all good people trying to do their best but they're not—" Steve stops, and he puts his head in his hands. Here five minutes, and here his guts are spilling out of him like he's been _aching_ for this – and hasn't he been? "All of them try to be nice. Take their time with the guy who just came out of the ice. It was my birthday yesterday, and all of them got me _something_ , but none of them… None of them get it. And I can't explain it. How it feels."

"How does it feel?"

"Like I shouldn't be here." The words hang on the air, and they make Steve feel sick inside. "I'm not— I'm not saying I thought about ending it, or anything. Just feels wrong. Every time I think everything's fine, I'll remember something else that's not the same, something else that's gone now. Something else that's changed." McDonagh nods, slowly, and he makes a few scribbled notes on the pads – his handwriting is completely illegible, and not just because Steve is looking at it upside.

"How about your work?" McDonagh asks. "Do you find that satisfying?"

"It's important to help people. I don't think I…" He thinks of the mission they'd done, thinks of the way they'd broken into the lab with those rogue scientists. That's what he'll be doing all the time, if the Avengers Initiative fails: he'll be SHIELD's guard dog. "Better to be a hero than something else."

"Really?" McDonagh presses, and he frowns slightly, his thick, silver brows furrowing into one thick line. "Why?" Steve blinks.

"What do you mean?"

"Why be a hero? You have a lot of skills. You needn't necessarily pursue heroism, or indeed, any fight at all, if you didn't want to. I'm sure many universities and museums would be delighted to have your expertise to hand."

"No, that's not for me," Steve says, shaking his head. "I couldn't… I couldn't just sit idle. Do nothing."

"Then other forms of public service," McDonagh suggests. "Why not be a fireman?" It feels wrong. Steve opens his mouth, and then he closes it. "When did you first decide you wished to be a soldier, Steve?"

"The draft came in in 1940, before we were at war. I couldn't register, but I kept trying. Finally made it in '42. I couldn't stand the idea of staying at home while other guys, guys I knew, were dying overseas."

"You felt you weren't doing your duty," McDonagh says, knowingly. Steve nods. There's a distant look in McDonagh's eyes, and Steve leans forward, slowly.

"You ever do a tour?"

"In Vietnam," McDonagh says, quietly.

"Vietnam?" Steve repeats. "How old are you?" McDonagh's lip twitches.

"Ninety-three." Jesus. _Ninety-three?_ The guy… This guy does _not_ look ninety-three. Steve stares at him.

" _Ninety-three_?" Steve laughs, despite himself, and he shakes his head. "Seven years between us. I'm sorry, I— I thought you were a lot younger than that. Way younger. I wouldn'ta pegged you for older than sixty."

"You think Pietro Maximoff would see a non-mutant psychologist?" Steve runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his seat, and he slowly shakes his head. God. _God_. McDonagh smiles, and he leans back in his seat. "My mutation isn't so exciting – I age a great deal slower than most, and I can use telepathy, if I have a physical connection. Nothing too out there, as the kids say."

"That why you become a psychologist?" Steve asks, quietly. "The telepathy?"

"No, no. I was meant to be a psychologist."

"I was meant to be a soldier."

"Really?" McDonagh asks. "Is that what you wanted to be, when you were a little boy? A soldier?" Steve turns his head away, staring down at his hands. He'd been sick as a kid, even sicker than he was as he grew up, missed a whole lot of school, nearly died a few times. Scarlet fever, one year. He'd managed to give the TB the slip, but other stuff had caught him.

"No," he mutters. "No, I never wanted— I wasn't a natural fighter. When I was a kid, I figured it was all rosy. I wanted to heal people, be a doctor. I spent enough time around doctors. But I never had the grades, and you can't have a doctor that'll drop dead. My immune system was _shot_. Being a soldier was all I could do to help other people."

"But there are other options now, aren't there?" McDonagh asks, softly. The question settles heavy in Steve's chest.

"Nah, Doc. Not really."

"Tell me why." Anger burns in Steve's chest, indignant and _crackling_ like lightning, but then calm comes. The anger is the problem here. So, Steve sucks it up, and begins to try to explain. The words don't come easy.

 **July 5th, 2012  
11:24AM**

Steve runs his hand through his hair as he steps into the lift, leaning back against the wall and catching his reflection in the mirror as it begins to rise. So, that was therapy. It was… Hard. Steve hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected to feel raw, and defensive, and angry all at once, and yet—

He feels better, now.

He glances at his phone, and he twists his lip.

 **Loki, 9:25  
You're most welcome. Any time, as they say.**

Steve thinks of replying. He hadn't earlier, hadn't known what to say. Last night, he'd kind of expected a _date_ , just the two of them spending time together, just the two of them… Together. And when they'd settled down to the ground at the fair, Clint and Nat had already been waiting for them – they'd _known_ they were coming – and Steve had been so damned _frustrated_.

Every time he thinks he's getting somewhere, Loki changes the deal. Every time he thinks he can relent, thinks he can let Loki get closer, Loki takes a step back. And it's complicated, and it's _hard_ , and he just wishes he could break the connection between them and let Loki do what he wanted, but… What the Hell would even _happen_ then? Would Thor come grab him? Would Loki level a city? Would he choose to stay?

 _I have faith in you_ , he'd said. Like he'd never had faith in somebody before.

Steve sighs, stepping out of the elevator, and he thinks about what Loki had said about the Avengers. He's right, Steve thinks. Christ, he hates it, but Loki's _right_. It's gonna crumble away, sooner or later. They're all gonna slip back into their own stuff, and Avengers Tower, God knows that'll happen to this place.

"Steve," Nat says. "How was therapy?"

"Good," Steve answers, and he walks past her. She doesn't follow him, doesn't try to chatter in his ear, or get him to pull back toward her. He appreciates that – Nat always seems to know exactly what Steve needs, intuitively. He appreciates her, and he should show it better.

He doesn't today.

 **July 6th, 2012  
07:13PM**

Breathing heavily, Steve catches Clint by his jaw, forcing the other guy to look him in the face. Clint is breathing heavily, his lungs slightly laboured for the work, and there is soot on his face – putting out the fire had been hard enough, but then Clint had gone quiet on the comms, and Steve had had to carry him out of the building himself.

"You okay?" he asks. Clint nods. "Wanda's gonna need to heal you, I think."

"Where's Loki when you need him, amirite?" Clint says, laughing, woodenly.

"You really try hard not to hate him, huh?"

"I don't hate anybody," Clint says, and he coughs, hard, against his arm. "Specially not people who don't deserve it. He didn't want to invade this place any more than we wanted him to."

"Yeah," Steve mutters. "Guess that's true." They wait together, on the street, until Wanda comes down from the skyscraper, and fusses over Clint like he's the most fragile thing in the world – and Clint seems to enjoy it at least a little bit.

Steve walks away.

 **July 7th, 2012  
06:55AM**

Steve packs the last of his stuff into his bag, and he holds it on his shoulder. When he moves out into the corridor, Tony has his arms crossed over his chest. There are bags under his eyes, as if he didn't get much sleep last night, but Steve doesn't mention it.

"JARVIS said you were packing."

"It's too big here, for me," Steve says, shrugging his shoulders. "My apartment's smaller. Feels a little more like me. I'll still be around." Tony presses his lips together, his brow furrowing: Steve had seen that expression on Howard's face a dozen times. _Hurt._ "Tony… It's not you. I'm an old man, I'm not used to a big, modern skyscraper like this." The humour doesn't seem to fit with Tony, bouncing right off him.

"Sure," he says, quietly. "He gonna come back, you think?"

"I don't know," Steve admits. "He said he wasn't sure himself."

"I had a nightmare last night," Tony admits. His hand goes up to his throat, feeling over the flesh there. "Dreamed he was throwing me out this fucking skyscraper all over again, and I felt the damned free fall— This time I didn't stick the landing. And you know what the worst part was?"

"What?" Steve asks.

"I woke up thinking, shit, could be worse. I could be him." That punches Steve in the gut. He thinks of Loki in his library, telling Steve about Svaðilfari, and Sleipnir, and Odin. "Don't worry about leaving. The room's yours no matter what."

"Thanks, Tony," Steve says, quietly, but Tony is already moving down the corridor, up the stairs toward Bruce's lab.

 **July 8th, 2012  
10:45AM**

"You ridden a Harley before?" the guy asks. He wears a leather jacket, and his long hair is tied up in a bun. He has around four piercings through his ear, and Steve turns away from it, looking at the bike itself.

"Yeah," he says. "A '42 Liberator." The guy whistles, nodding his head in approval. "It was modded, of course, but I rode that thing all through Germany."

"Holiday?"

"Nah," Steve says. He doesn't explain further: thankfully, the guy doesn't ask.

"You want to take her for a spin? This is the newest model, the Softail Slim, she's—"

"I'll take her." The guy stares at him. "I already did my research, man. I'd rather just ride her out of here."

"Shit," the guy says. "Yeah, sure, let's— Let's get to the paperwork." When Steve signs his name, the guy's eyes widen, and he stares at Steve like he's some kinda relic, but it doesn't matter. Steve has his keys in his hand and is already putting on his new helmet.

Riding a motorcycle again feels good. Damned good.

He wishes it was enough.

 **July 9th, 2012  
07:13PM**

"I need you," Nick says on the phone. Within an hour, Steve and Nat are suited up, and on a flight over to Tokyo.

 **July 10th, 2012  
03:13PM**

Steve lies on his back in his apartment, holding a baseball in his hand. He never used to be any good at baseball – Bucky'd been on the team, for a while, back in high school, but Steve couldn't run, couldn't throw, couldn't hit the ball. He'd just gone to sit in the bleachers, cheer Bucky on.

He throws the ball high, and he catches it easily.

 _"And today in Ogden, Wyoming, the X-Men were involved in relief efforts involving a young mutant boy struggling to contain his powers, causing a landslide nearby. The boy is remanded in state custody, and will remain anonymous, but our sources say he'll be taking a place at X-Mansion this fall. What do you think, Jim?"_

 _"Well, Sarah, I just think it's wild we let this stuff happen. I know mutant rights are a popular thing to talk about, but there's a limit to what we can allow – what if he'd killed somebody? What if someone had been seriously hurt? What do we do with the kids that won't go to X-Mansion, or a similar facility?"_

The ball sails into the air. Drops down.

 _"Well, Jim, it's not as if we can stop mutants from existing, from having their powers."_

 _"No, but we could make them register. Keep them monitored."_

The ball hits hard against Steve's radio, so hard the thing shatters into a hundred pieces. Steve stays lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

 **July 11th, 2012  
11:59PM**

 **I miss you** , he nearly types, and then he doesn't. He rolls over in his sleep, presses his face into the pillow, and tries his best to just _drift off_.

Sleep doesn't come until some time past six.

 **July 12th, 2012  
12:13PM**

"Pass the salad, would you?" Sam asks, and Rhodey slides him the bowl. Steve watches the two of them for a second, and he smiles. It's good, to have Sam back around – but the guy is more tired than ever, now. He'd not been gone for so long, but _God_ , he looks haggard.

"How you feeling, recently?" Steve asks quietly, after lunch is finished. Sam laughs, quietly, and he rubs his eyes.

"I look that bad, huh?"

"You look pretty good," Steve admits. "But tired."

"Yeah, I ain't sleeping too well at the moment. Nightmares, you know."

"PTSD."

"Nah. Just nightmares." Steve nods his head, slowly. Sam sighs. "It's hard, you know. Sometimes, in the army, you lose people. It's not fair, but that's just how it goes."

"That why your mission ended so early?" Steve asks. Sam presses his lips together, and Steve looks at him for a second. His rich, dark skin has taken on a slightly chalky tone, as if it's lit from underneath with a sickly whiteness, and he looks as if he might be sick.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"You want a hug?" Steve asks. Sam turns to look at him, staring. He's handsome – and he knows he's handsome, too, but right now, he just looks _tired_ , and small. Steve wishes he could fix it all. But Hell, if he could fix stuff for Sam, damn, he'd be able to fix stuff for himself, too.

"Really?" Sam asks. "You're just giving out free hugs now?"

"Oh, Hell no," Steve says, and he holds out his palm. "Cross my palm with a Hamilton, Wilson, then we'll talk."

"Just a Hamilton, huh?" Sam asks, lowly. "Not a Franklin?"

"I'm trying to be realistic here." Sam laughs, and it's real, and genuine: Steve sees the gap in his teeth as he grins, and it makes him smile himself, just to see Sam seem a little more relaxed. His shoulders are looser, his back a little less straight. "Bring it in," Steve murmurs, and he feels Sam's arms squeeze him tightly, feels Sam's chin against his shoulder because Steve's just that _all_ these days, and Steve pats his back. "You can talk to me, you know. You're not— I know you do that work down at the VA, but we can talk. Just man to man. Not like therapists, but… Friends."

"Thanks," Sam murmurs, quietly.

"So, uh, while we're this close and she can't hear us," Steve murmurs. "What's with you and Nat?" Sam laughs some more, and he shoves Steve away. Steve laughs, quietly, and Sam doesn't answer the question – it doesn't matter. He didn't really mean for him to.

 **July 13th, 2012  
04:41PM**

"Does anything need healing?" Strange asks quietly. He looks between Steve, sat against the back of the truck, to Tony and Bruce, both of whom are exhausted sprawled in the driver and passenger seat.

"No," Bruce says, between exhalations. "I think we're all good. You really saved our asses there." Strange smiles, tightly. He glares daggers in Steve's direction, and he slips out of the truck.

Steve follows.

"What's your problem, Doc?" he asks, tone casual. His suit is ripped to shreds, but he isn't shy of a little skin on show – the demons had overrun Central Park in a spreading cloud, and with as many as they'd knocked out, they couldn't quite close the portal. If Strange hadn't come when he did…

"What's my _problem_?" Strange asks, turning on his heel. "Why, it's _you."_

"Me, huh?" Steve says, and he laughs. "And, uh, why don't you enlighten me, magic man? What have I done to get you angry?" Strange scoffs, curling his lip. He doesn't answer: he walks right away, disappearing in a flash of green flame.

Steve frowns.

 **July 14th, 2012  
11:32AM**

The bike feels good underneath hm. He feels the thrum of the engine, feels it purr as he revs it, and the X-Mansion comes into view. The driveway had been long – much longer than he'd expected – and it's… Well, of course it's a mansion. He'd known that, on one level. On another…

He flicks the engine off, and he can hear kids laughing and yelling, so he doesn't go straight to the door. His hands in his pockets, he walks slowly around the side of the house, making his way toward the basketball court. Teachers v. Students seems to be the game – Hank McCoy is dodging past a teenager with spikes coming off his shoulders, bouncing the ball on the ground, but then a girl bursts through him, laughing as she takes the ball away.

Steve stands on the hill, and he can't help but grin a little. Kids are crowded around the court, cheering and yelling for their favourite teachers, for their friends, and it's good to see so many kids, different skins, different faces, having a good time together. He scans the crowd, looking for a crop of black hair, a shine of silver at the ear, pale skin… No.

No sign.

Moving back toward the house, he slips in through the open kitchen door, and he's hit by the scent of baking bread. The guy at the table glances at him, studying Steve for a second, and he says, "Cap."

"Hey," Steve says, quietly. The guy seems vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place the face, can't quite reconcile it with a memory. "We met?"

"In the army," the guy says. "Probably. I'm Logan."

"Logan," Steve says, and he nods his head, slowly. He remembers that voice, gravelly and low – the guy had fought like a machine, and Steve had only met him once, but he'd remembered the way he'd held himself. Damn little, for a soldier. Shorter than Steve had been, even, before the serum. "You can call me Steve."

And then there's Loki in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his left eye and yawning quietly. He's wearing his glasses, and his hair is loosely tied in a bun, some of the strands hanging loosely around his face: he wears a blue shirt tucked into jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and flour clings to the front of his shirt. Steve stares at him, for the longest moment, until Loki opens his eyes properly, and looks at him.

"Oh," he says. "Steven. Are you alright?" Real, genuine concern is visible on his face, and he takes a step forward, a hand touching Steve's arm – there's flour clinging to his wrist, too, and a little sticking to his fingernails.

"I'm fine," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "Just thought I'd ride down. Got a new bike, thought I'd take you for a ride." Loki smiles.

"How thoughtful of you," he murmurs. "Care for some banana bread?" Loki moves across the kitchen like he owns it, and he slides a knife through a loaf of golden-brown bread with walnuts on top, cutting a slice through it easily. When Steve takes the plate, he finds it's still warm, and he watches as Loki takes another piece, setting it down in front of Logan.

"He says we should stop buying bread," Logan mutters, wryly. "It's cheaper to bake ourselves."

"It is," Loki says, archly. Steve bites into the bread, and he hums, tasting the sweetness of the banana, feeling the walnut crunch between his teeth, feeling the heaviness of the bread as it melts a little on his tongue.

"God, that's good," he mumbles, and Loki laughs. A few different loaves of bread are laid up to cool on the side, and Loki kneels down, taking another one out of the oven: this one is a bread Steve recognizes, sweet-smelling and made of braided plaits of bread. Challah. Everything about the scene feels a little weird, a little overly domestic, as Loki taps the bread, listening for the hollow crackle of the inside. Loki looks right at home, here in the mansion's kitchen, feeding people bread and cooking for a hundred at once. He sets the slice down on the plate, putting it on the counter. "Uh, Loki, would—"

"We'll walk upon the grounds," Loki assents, before Steve can even ask. "We'll talk then."

"Right," Steve says. He looks to Logan, but Logan shows no sign of knowing one way or the other what's on Loki's mind. He just meets Steve's gaze, evenly. It doesn't take long – Loki sets the challah bread out on a wire frame to cool, and then he walks alongside Steve, out into the grounds. Children greet him as they run by, and Loki nods his head to each of them. For a while, they walk in silence, until the basketball game is just noise in the distance, and there's a sparkling lake down the hill before them. "I saw Strange, yesterday. Kinda got the impression you two had broken it off."

"Yes," Loki agrees. It's a surprisingly easy answer. "For now."

"For now?"

"For now." Loki smiles, his lips quirking slowly into the expression: he seems utterly at peace, as if he's just come off of some meditation, or a massage. "He and I were destined to disagree, in the end. Perhaps that will change, but I am inclined to believe it will not." Lok has a faraway look in his eyes, his tone quietly pensive, and Steve gets the impression that he _knows_ something about what will come. "I don't think I will come back to the Avengers, Steven."

"No?" Steve asks.

"No," Loki says, with finality. He turns to look at Steve, and his expression is entirely serious as he reaches out, his cool knuckles brushing the side of his cheek. "I believe I will stay on Earth, though." Steve frowns.

"What?"

"Order me to do something," Loki suggests. "Whatever you like." It feels, for a second, as if the world slows to a stop around them. Loki's expression is quietly serious, but not cold, and Steve is hyperaware of the silver around his throat, the pound of his heart in his chest, the thrum of the blood in his veins.

"Hit me," he orders. Loki's knuckles remain on his cheek, the touch feather-light. Steve stares at him, searching his eyes, but nothing shows in Loki's face but quiet indulgence. "How'd you do it?"

"Odin bound my magic rather inefficiently. All it took was for me to grow my magical ability sufficiently to break the chain that bound me… It was child's play, really. I ought have thought of it sooner." Loki smiles, wanly. "I did some things I wouldn't have, otherwise. Broadened my horizons somewhat."

"What does this mean?" Steve asks, lowly.

"Whatever you wish it to," Loki says, shrugging his shoulders. They are coming toward the lake, now, and Loki bends down, taking up a small, flat stone. With a flick of his wrist, he sends it skipping across the water – it goes and goes and goes, until it disappears from sight beneath the still surface. "I will keep up appearances, if you wish. I'll do whatever you order me to before the eye of Nick Fury, or the eyes of SHIELD. We can fight side-by-side. We can sleep together. The world is rather open to new possibilities, I feel." Steve stares at him, and he feels the coiling sickness in him, the vague understanding that Loki is _dangerous_ , and _ancient_ , and unpredictable.

"You're not angry?" he asks.

"At whom?"

"Me?"

"You?" Loki laughs, looking out over the water. "No. I've had a rather enlightening week. I'll tell you about it, if you wish." There's something… _Off_ about Loki. Something weird, distant. He seems completely relaxed, and yet Steve can't help but feel he's missing some piece of it all.

"Enlightening?"

"In order to expand my magic, I had to reach for new skills," Loki murmurs, quietly. "Divination. Reality-bending. I looked through this world and into another. I met myself. Or, a version of myself."

"You said before it didn't matter what other versions of you were like," Steve says, thinking of the way Loki had mentioned En Dwi Gast before, thinking of his uncertainty. Loki looks thoughtful, his hands in his pockets.

"I was wrong," Loki admits. "Their lives don't _affect_ me, that much is true, but… I can learn from other versions of myself. Destiny… I thought for the longest time, Steven, that destiny was my leash. That my path was already set in stone. But now, I realise that as the bonds between you and I, my destiny can be cast off, can be changed. Not with ease, I confess, but it can be done."

"What does that mean?" Steve asks, softly.

"It means I cast off Asgard. Loki is _my_ name, now, not the name Odin gave me. It means…" Loki turns, and he smiles, softly. He's beautiful like this, with the wind in his hair, his marble features completely relaxed. "It means freedom. True freedom – I've never had that before. I'm rather excited, if all truth be told." He puts out his hand, and Steve stares at it. "You have your own liberty, of course," Loki murmurs quietly. "But I should like to share our freedoms together, if you wish."

"You're… You seem kinda off."

"It's the magic," Loki admits. "I seem distant, yes?" Steve nods. "It's difficult for me to embrace physicality entirely when new power thrums through me: it makes me less grounded in this dimension. Come, come closer—" Loki touches his temple—

And all his darkness.

 **Unknown  
Unknown**

Steve stares around them. They are sat on the lakebed, and he can feel how difficult it is to move in the water – it presses against him in a way that air doesn't, resisting his movements more than air would, and yet he feels it is easy to breathe.

"Can I tell you?" Loki asks, softly. His lips don't move. "I won't, if you don't wish to. But I'd like to tell you what happened. What I saw."

"Will it hurt?" Steve asks. It's not the question he meant to ask.

"No," Loki says. His mouth moves this time, synchronised with the single word, and then Loki is sat in Steve's lap, his arms wrapped around Steve's neck, and his lips are on Steve's – and Steve remembers _everything_ , just as Loki had felt it.

When it ends, Loki pulls away, and Steve stares up at him.

"This isn't love," Loki murmurs. "But I would like it to be. I would like… I would like to learn from you. To be better."

"I'd like to teach you," Steve says. Loki smiles, and the expression seems fragile and ethereal, like the first crescent of a new moon.

"Thank you," he whispers, and then his cold mouth is on Steve's lips again. He can feel the two of them drifting through the water together, feel Loki's lips on his own, feel Loki's body pressed against his—

And it is perfect. It won't last, of course – perfection, by nature, can't last. It's fleeting. But if anything, that just makes it better, and he feels himself smile against Loki's pressing lips.


	20. Brought To Justice 20

**July 7th, 2012  
10:45PM**

Loki lets out a low moan of pleasure as Stephen's hands slide hot over his shoulders, leaving the massage oil glistening on Loki's pale skin. There's something folded into the oil, something that tingles and burns pleasantly against his flesh, and he leans back into Stephen's clever fingers. Loki levitates some four feet over the ground, suspended in place by a web of carefully woven magic, and he is entirely naked, seated cross-legged upon the air.

Stephen's hands begin to slide down over his right arm, rubbing the oil into every piece of flesh he can reach, and Loki brings the cup of steaming tea to his lips, draining it to the dregs. He swills the cup three times and then turns it on its head, letting gravity work upon the leaves even as the cup itself stays suspended in the magical field.

"This oil is made of Galain pepper, from Suplix 3," he murmurs, leaning forward, and Loki closes his eyes as Stephen's hands massage the oil into his neck and then carefully sets it around his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, careful to avoid his mouth and lips. "It has hallucinogenic _and_ aphrodisiac qualities…"

"Strong, isn't it?" Loki asks, his eyes opening as Stephen's hands begin to work the shining oil into his chest. "I've never seen your cheeks flush so red before."

"Even through the palms, it's rather a lot," Stephen admits, and Loki smiles as his hands slip lower, rubbing over Loki's belly, and then lower. Loki's thighs are soon glistening, and as he takes the cup from the air, he stretches his legs out, giving the other sorcerer better access to his calves and ankles. His own fingers are somewhat greasy, but he manages to look into the tea cup.

"What do you see?" Stephen asks, and Loki shudders as his hand plays over the sole of his left foot, where an old injury seethes under the flesh. Loki looks into the cup, and he feels his eyes swim slightly as he looks at the marks in tea leaves wrought against the ceramic. Tasseomancy – the art of reading tea leaves – is a complex art. It ordinarily involves vague symbols, wherein one must carefully interpret them.

There's nothing vague about this.

In the centre of the cup rests a sun, and Loki can feel the oil burning as it works its way into his skin, making his blood flow hot: the sun even glows slightly yellow as new colours make themselves known to Loki's eyes. The _sun_ – prosperity and happiness to come, good fortune. Strength, fidelity.

Beneath the sun is an anvil – success in new enterprises – but a figure is bent over it, a hammer in his right hand. The hammer refers to difficult, troublesome tasks, something hard to undertake, and the man— There's no symbol in any dictionary of tea leaves for a dwarf, but even as Loki looks at him, he sees his right arm move, bringing the hammer down against something invisible upon the anvil. Distantly, he hears the clang of hammer and tongs, hears the _hiss_ of iron in water, hears the roar of a distant furnace and feels its heat against his face. The tea leaves shift under his gaze, and Loki hears the rumble of thunder as lightning dashes through the dwarf's figure, showing another.

Thor, with Mjolnir in his hand.

The cup shatters on the ground, passing directly through the magical field and hitting hard against the tile, and this is the moment Stephen's fingers slide against his wet, open quim, and Loki moans, spreading his thighs as wide as he can possibly get them. "Give me the exo root," he says, and Stephen laughs. The oil is too hot, _too hot_ , where it presses against the lips of his cunny and slides over his cock, making the skin feel overwrought and electrified, and Loki feels he might come from this alone, this bare tingling heat against the sensitive flesh.

"I haven't ground it down yet," Stephen says, as two fingers slide easily into him.

"That's fine," Loki says. He's on his back, lying against a blanket of air, and when Stephen presses the root into his hand, Loki shoves the thing into his mouth whole and begins to chew. The exo root, a vein-like tuber that grows only in faerie realms, tastes bitter and juicy against his tongue, and although it is tough to chew through, Loki does, swallowing it as soon as it is small enough to pass down his gullet, and he hears Stephen's quiet, awed curse. Immediately, Loki begins to feel the effects: when he opens his eyes, he sees naught but a pink haze, and he can no longer see Stephen's laboratory at all. Distantly, he feels Stephen's thumb press against his anus, rubbing oil into the puckered flesh, but he feels nothing except warm, tingling heat that bursts throughout his body.

Loki begins to focus on his seiðr, feeling it thrum within him like a swelling wave, allowing it to fill his every inch of vein, his every square of flesh, in his teeth, his hair, his eyes—

And then in a flash of white, Loki is somewhere else entirely.

 **N/A**

Loki stands on the edge of forever. Before him glows the Yggdrasil, the world tree: suspended amidst stardust and ever-extending blackness, he sees its shining coils as they spread throughout the universe, a thousand coils of magic forming its silver-shining bark, and he sees it reach out to touch each of the Nine Realms.

"There you are. I wondered how long it would take." Loki turns his head, slowly, as if moving his head through syrup, and he turns to look toward the voice.

Loki looks back at him. But this isn't _Loki_ , this is another Loki, a different one. Wearing robes of flowing, blue fabric that floats airily around his hidden feat and curves with grace around his broad body, he stands as tall as Loki himself, with black hair that cascades down to his midback. Silver shines in his hair in rings and ornaments, as well as in thick rings on his fingers, bangles on his arms, chains about his neck, and even two shining loops that mark through the left side of his nostril. To the left side of his face, Loki sees a lock of blond hair braided through the other Loki's own, and he feels sadness settle in his chest.

"You are old," Loki says, for it is true. The other Loki has wrinkles about his blue eyes, laugh lines, a furrow in his brow, and although his skin is pale, it has been weathered by time. He smiles, showing his teeth, and Loki sees that his upper-right canine has been replaced by a tooth made of silver.

"I am," he says softly. He reaches out his hands, and Loki sees that he wears his scars plainly. He and the Ancient-Loki share the bite upon one hand, from the tear of Fenrisúlfr's young teeth, but that other scars are different indeed, playing amongst the marks of age. Loki takes the Ancient-Loki's hands, and he lets out a short sound of surprise at the _heat_ of them, tingling against his fingers. "Ah, my apologies. Here." His blood cools in a moment, and Loki sighs, softly. "Come, my child, let us walk together."

"Are you and I the same?" Loki asks, as he interlinks his arm with the Ancient-Loki's own. The two of them begin to Skywalk away from the Yggdrasil, which remains suspended in the space behind them.

"No," the Ancient-Loki murmurs. His voice has a low and sonorous quality, different to Loki's own. "I have been waiting for you."

"Why?"

"I have much to tell you."

"Oh." Loki feels his body, a million light years away, moan as something is pressed inside him, something hot and pleasurable. Loki does not feel it. He and his body are separated for now. "Will you teach me? How to open myself to other realities?"

"Yes," the Ancient-Loki agrees. His hand is over Loki's own, drawing him close although their arms are already interlinked. "We shall take a seat together." And then they have: Loki and his old ghost are seated across from one another at a glass table, with glass seats beneath them. To their right, there sprawls a city of shining, golden spires.

"Where is this?" Loki asks, staring over the planet. Below them, running and rushing over piles upon miles of trash are swarming peasantry, and Loki sees them rip at one another, sees them bite and scratch as they fight over scraps of food.

"Sakaar," the Ancient-Loki says, impassively. "This was to be your future."

"This?" Loki repeats. "Why?" The Ancient-Loki chuckles.

"Strange considered you a threat to his Earth upon your first meeting, and thus, he would send you here, where for the first time, you would meet the Grandmaster." Loki frowns, considering this for a long few moments. The Sakaarii scream and shout beneath them, and he reaches for the mug of tea that has set itself on the table, taking a sip. "All changed when you allowed Odin to bind your magic instead of returning to a prison cell."

"I see," Loki says: he does not. How could a prison cell in the bowels of Asgard lead him to _this_? "I must open my magic to the future, to other realities. I must break the bonds I am in."

"Your bond to Steve Rogers is not the only chain you will shatter," the Ancient-Loki says quietly. "Before I assist you in expanding your magic, you must understand this." Loki furrows his brow, looking at his elder counterpart. The Ancient-Loki sings with powers greatly exceeding Loki's own, radiating out from his form as light and heat radiates from a sun. and Loki peers at him, curious.

"What other chains?"

"Why, the chain of destiny."

"Destiny," Loki repeats. "I don't care for destiny."

"Nor I," the Ancient-Loki says softly. "I cast mine off."

"How?"

"How indeed." Loki frowns. "If I tell you, I cannot take it back. Shall I tell you?"

"Yes," Loki decides, firmly. The Ancient-Loki smiles.

 **N/A**

The two Lokis stand in a grand and sprawling garden, flowers blooming around their ankles. Loki looks at the base of the Ancient-Loki's grand skirts, and he sees them lean in toward him, brushing the edges of his robes as if laying kisses at his feet. "T'was an early morning, after I had burst into the Council of the Gods, and delivered a rousing speech indeed. I laid out every flaw of every god there, and declared each one of them a failure and a monster. Long had I yearned to do so, with every one of my children snatched away from me, with my wife murdered in the waters of the Jut Sea. Every attempt I made to leave Asgard was foiled in some way or other, and I had lost patience. I was destined, as you are, to be bound to a rock with the pickled remains of my son Narfi, to withstand the dripping venom of a snake until Ragnarok came."

"And?" Loki asks.

"I refused," the Ancient-Loki says. The two words burst through the air with the force of a sonic boom, whistling through the air. The flowers shiver, but they do not hide away from the Ancient-Loki and the wind itself seems to softly moan its sympathy, playing through the Ancient-Loki's shining black hair. "I fled from Asgard, and hid myself from Thor's search and Heimdall's Allsight alike. And so I went beneath the bowels of Asgard, where my son, Fenrisúlfr, who would bring about Ragnarok, lay bound in chains. I spake unto him thus…"

The scene unfolds in Loki's mind's eye, and he sees the Ancient-Loki in his youth, his pale features new and young and handsome. _"My son,_ " he says, and he falls to his knees before the great wolf, Fenrisúlfr, slavering at the teeth and jaw and rattling his chains. _"I have come to ask you: would you wreak havoc upon the gods that bound you here? Or would you rather have peace?"_

 _"What is peace?"_ demands the dread wolf, his great jaws snapping.

 _"It is nothingness,"_ the Ancient-Loki says. _"It is running in the fields, and being once more reunited with the sister you knew in your youth, and seeing your mother. It is eating as you please, and no longer starving here. There are no chains. Equally, there is no revenge – you will lose the power to attack the gods that bound you here. If you choose revenge, I shall release you now, and you can run as you please."_

A long pause draws out, a pause that lasts three days and three nights.

 _"I choose peace,"_ Fenrisúlfr says, finally.

 _"I was hoping you wouldn't,"_ the Ancient-Loki says, and he drives the dagger into the breast of his son.

Loki inhales, sharply. The flowers kiss his feet, and play upon his ankles, and they offer him what comfort they can. He stares at the Ancient-Loki, who looks melancholy indeed, staring into the middle distance.

"And Jormungandr?" Loki demands.

"I killed him too," the Ancient-Loki says. "For he, too, chose peace. And Sleipnir had died in battle some months previous: all of my sons were together under the rule of their sister." Disgust coils in Loki's lungs, his heart, his stomach. This Ancient-Loki is not him: he has _murdered_ his own children! A monster is he, worse than Loki himself! "The future of the universe shattered like glass, and the universe, by its laws, was forced to change itself. The strength of the entire timeline flowed through my body, cleaving me open, and I thought surely that I would die, but I did not. I woke upon the shores of Niflheim, surrounded by my children, and for three days and three nights, I sat amongst them."

"And then?" Loki prompts. He keeps his distance from the Ancient-Loki, and the other man sighs, softly.

"I had to leave," he says. "For I was not dead, and could not remain in a realm not meant for me. And so time passed. Odin grew old and died of his age. So too did the Lady Frigga. Heimdall passed in his sleep. Thor, even, grew old and died with my hands in his." The Ancient-Loki reaches up, touching the single braid beside his ear, where blond hair is neatly braided with his own. "Then Thor's children, and Thor's children's children, and even their children."

"And you aged not?" Loki asks in a whisper, and the Ancient-Loki bows his head. His silver-bedecked hands are clasped loosely before him as the two of them come to a stop, standing on the head of a grassy cliff and looking out over lilac waters.

"When the universe came to an end, and time itself began to ail and blunder, when suns winked out of existence, when the fabric of reality itself threatened to come to a stop, I thought I would finally see peace. But the universe ended, and around me burst another, which I saw from beginning to end. And then the next, and the next, and the next." The Ancient-Loki spreads his hands in a gesture of _mea culpa_ , the silver on his fingers reflecting the bright sun above them. "I gave my sons peace and took the burden of revenge, their destiny, from their shoulders. In doing so, the chance of peace myself was lost to me. And so I have experienced billions of universes, each lasting billions of years… Who knows when it shall end, if ever?"

"You expect me to feel sympathy?" Loki asks, archly. "You, who committed infanticide? Who killed your own sons, who had already withstood such agonies?"

"Nay," the Ancient-Loki says. "I am an illustration of what can happen if you force your destiny to release you. Mine is a very extreme case, of course. If you break Steven Rogers' shackle upon you, and you break the bondage of destiny… It will force the universe to change what is as yet laid out. The effects of that adaptation are impossible to predict, and the future itself will become looser. This choice will impact billions, not just yourself."

"What do I have to do?" Loki asks. The Ancient-Loki's smile is soft, and wan: his fingers are gentle where they push his hair back from his face.

"Open your mouth," he murmurs. Loki hesitates, and then he parts his lips. Between his palms, the Ancient-Loki draws golden light together, and Loki stares at the beauty of it as it coils in a thousand strands, weaving itself into a coiling rope.

"Will it work?" Loki asks in a whisper.

"No," the Ancient-Loki promises, and Loki gasps as the rope of shining light bursts forward – not, as he had expected, into his mouth, but directly through his chest. Blazing heat sears through him, so hot he thinks he will burst, but it does not hurt: it merely feels foreign in his cold flesh, as if he is soon to melt.

"Thank you," Loki says. The Ancient-Loki smiles, and Loki watches him fade into the ether.

 **July 8th, 2012  
2:37AM**

Loki's eyes burn with flame, and he lunges, dragging Stephen's mouth against his own. Stephen gasps into his mouth, and Loki drags him closer, drawing blood as he bites down on the other man's lip: he feels Stephen within him, hard and wet and _spearing_ , and he grinds himself against the other sorcerer.

He feels Stephen come, feels that hot wash against his inner walls, and then Stephen is on his back on the ground, Loki atop him, his hands splayed over Stephen's chest.

The vision comes to Loki is a swim of sudden comprehension, and he sees it all. He sees Strange on his back, here on the tiled floor of his laboratory; he sees Strange in the centre of the galaxy, thousands of channels of magical energies burning through him; he sees Strange frozen in the driver's seat of his car, feels his agony as he stares helplessly down at his crushed hands; he sees Strange fading into the ether as some unknown power tears him to pieces—

Stephen says quietly, and he reaches up, patting the side of his face. "Loki," he says.

"Mmm?" Loki asks.

"Your eyes are white." Loki realises he cannot see at all. He sees things in his mind's eye, but his true eyes see naught at all. He feels the laboratory around them, feels the heat of Stephen's body, the glistening sweat on his flesh and the wonderful crackle of his magic, but he sees nothing. All at once, Loki has his sight again, and he is standing slowly to his feet.

Magic thrums through him, not quite contained by his bones and skin, and he stares at his own hands, which glow with a power far exceeding that which he has ever touched before. Loki laughs: the sound rings through the room like a peal of bells, and he feels the chain wrapped loosely about him, woven through his very core. It shatters like glass, and he sees Stephen flinch, feeling the sudden burst of power in the room.

But that is not all. Another power is still threaded through him, and he draws his lip in a snarl, reaching for the thread of purple control that yet assails his mind, feels its strange magic bite and jolt at being so touched—

" **Thanos** ," Loki intones, his god-voice vibrating with power.

"Thanos," Stephen repeats, looking searchingly at him. Loki can feel his sated flesh, feels it boneless and relaxed – how many times had he had Loki, whilst Loki was humming on the edge of consciousness, playing between the physical and the astral. "Who's that?" Loki takes the purple strand into his seiðr and _bites_ at it, savagely: the thread snaps, and distantly, he feels a groan of pain.

"Doesn't matter," Loki says. "Food." He turns away, but Stephen grasps at his arm, looking searchingly at his face.

"Wait, wait," he says. "Did it work?" Loki tilts his head at him, and he feels the intensity of thought swirling in Stephen's mind, so close to the surface it is impossible for Loki not taste of it: he sees Stephen on his knees, worshiping Loki's thighs with his mouth; he sees his own mouth whispering promises he would never give to Strange; he sees Strange holding Loki by his hair, a fantasy of control. But most of all, he sees Strange on his knees, kissing the backs of Loki's knuckles, sees a ring in his hand – gold.

"I don't wear gold," Loki says. He is surprised by the coldness in his voice.

"What?" Stephen asks.

"I don't wear gold," he says. "It's Thor's colour, not mine. I never wear gold – I barely ever wear yellow." Stephen is staring at him, confused, and Loki laughs at him, shoving him away. "I would never—"

He sees the universe divide before him, and he sees two visions of the future side by side: Loki and Steven Rogers back to back, a battle forming around them. They move as if they are tied together by some invisible string, their movements perfectly synchronised, and power sings around their feet as Loki draws it out and throws it outward. And the other vision, the other – Loki, laughing as he looks over a battle already won: gold shines in his hair and around his finger, and he has his arms wrapped around Strange's neck as they embrace, a parody of a wedding ceremony.

"Oh," he says, softly. "I never realised that was what you wanted."

"What? What are you seeing, I can't—"

"Futures," Loki sees. "Just futures. You're a better man than I thought." Loki's hand touches Stephen's cheek. "I must go. I'm so hungry."

"We can order something," Stephen says, confusion thick in his features.

"No," Loki says, laughing. "No, no, I need… Raw food. We can talk tomorrow."

"But I—" Loki blinks from the room, and he leaves Stephen Strange alone in his laboratory.

 **July 8th, 2012  
9:00AM**

" _Shit_ , Loki." Loki's eyes open. He is lying on his back in his bed, and Logan is staring down at him, his lips twisted in an expression of grim comprehension. Loki blinks, slowly. Seiðr still runs hot within him, and he feels distanced from his body, which is sticky. He looks down at himself. Blood cakes his bare chest, and dimly, he recalls last night. "How many deer did you eat?"

"Twelve," Loki says, lowly. "I think. Eight bucks, four does. And an— Elk?"

"Moose," Logan supplies. "I didn't take you for the raw flesh kinda guy."

"There is much new magic within me. Flesh helps me digest it." Loki stands to his feet, and promptly falls forward: Logan's hands steady him, and Loki is assailed by visions: Logan letting out a war cry as he runs savage through an army; Logan bearded and grey, holding a dying Xavier in his arms; Logan burning with the force of a sun, dying—

Loki coughs, and then he and Logan are in Loki's bathroom: the bath is full with hot water, and Loki slips into it. "What the—"

"Dimensional transitway. I teleported us."

"You smell weird," Logan mutters.

"I feel weird." Loki's veins feel as if they have been cleaved open: if his magic once flowed like a white-washed river, now it flows like a turbulent ocean. He feels dizzy and ethereal, as if he is connected to everything in the room, and Logan is watching him as if he has seen this before. "Your friend Jean—"

Logan's eyes widen. Loki sees visions of the Phoenix, a mutant so powerful the universe itself seems ready to collapse around her, her power so awesome it destroys everything it touches. She's gone now, he thinks, but the vision is hazy: time itself seems illusory to his magic-saturated mind.

"It's not like that," Loki says. "I need to sleep. I'll digest it, and this will pass."

"Okay," Logan mutters. "You sleep."

Loki sleeps for four days.

 **July 12th, 2012  
5:02AM**

"You're awake," Xavier says as he rolls into the kitchen, and Loki nods. Exhaustion floods through his body, and his very _pores_ feel open. He had scrubbed the blood from his skin and then crawled back into bed – no one had disturbed him until he had woken earlier this morning, dazed, confused, and tingling.

He picks up an egg, and then winces: all at once, he feels the egg scrambled, fried, poached, hatched into a chicken, sees that chicken a hen, a cock, a chimera—

Loki cracks the egg against the edge of a bowl and reaches for another.

"We thought you might be dead," Xavier says, casually. "But Logan insisted you were alive."

"More so than ever," Loki says mildly, and he feels himself smile. The strange future-notions are occurring whenever he touches anything, but already he is feeling them begin to recede, to draw back. His magic is thick in his body, close to the surface and desperate to be used, and more than ever he feels as a conduit for the flow of the universe, but— "I used to have future-notions of my life to come. Gods do, you know: our future is set in stone. Those are gone."

"Gone?" Xavier repeats, frowning slightly.

"I don't remember my death anymore," Loki murmurs. "That is to say— I recall it. I recall what it _would_ have been. But it's a memory of a memory, not a memory of a future that is already decided." If it is confusing, Xavier doesn't show it, and he leans back in the chair as Loki begins to whisk the eggs into a scramble, ready to pour in the warming pan. "I grew up remembering my future. Now, it is open. I have a thousand notions as to what will happen at once."

"How does it feel?" Xavier asks. There is a soft smile on his face, and Loki smiles back, pouring the eggs into the pan and listening to them sizzle.

"You tell me. I had a vision of you eating these this morning, picked out of around six hundred potential realities. You seemed to like the eggs the most." Xavier looks at him for a long few moments, and then gives a nod of his head.

 **July 12th, 2012  
8:12AM**

"Stephen," Loki says quietly. Wearing a suit of pastel blue, he reclines in a seat in the garden of the café, and Stephen slowly sinks into the seat across from him, his expression a mask of grim concern.

"You disappeared."

"I was asleep," Loki admits. "My body is adjusting to the changes within it."

"You're more powerful than you were before," Stephen murmurs, and Loki detects the hint of jealousy in it: his lips quirk into a small smile.

"Power… Power is everywhere. To be powerful is merely to be a conduit for energy. It would be silly to attempt to put one's capacity as a conduit into numbers, or to compare one person to another. T'is all relative, in the end." Stephen frowns, and Loki watches him for a long few moments. "Stephen… Were you to pick between revenge on your greatest enemy, and peace for you both, which would you choose?"

"What sort of question is that?" Stephen asks, frowning deeply.

"One that I'm asking."

"Revenge," Stephen says. "I couldn't enjoy peace knowing my enemy was too." Loki nods his head, slowly, and he sips at his tea. Distantly, he hears the answer of Captain America, not yet asked for: _peace. Always peace_. "That's what you'd select, no?"

"I would have, once," Loki answers simply. "I don't think I'm that man anymore. I feel it has come time for us to part ways, my friend."

"Part ways," Stephen echoes. "You take what you need from me, my assistance in breaking your bonds, and then we _part ways_?" Loki's lip twitches. He cannot help the amusement: hurt bursts around Stephen Strange like a cloud, and Loki reaches out, touching one of his scarred hands. "This is about Rogers." Loki elects to ignore that.

"We needn't part ways entirely," Loki says mildly. "We shall fight side-by-side, some day soon." Stephen wrenches his hand away.

"No," he says firmly. "We won't."

 **July 14th, 2012  
11:45AM**

Steve and Loki are lying on the grass beside the lake. Steve is on his back, watching the clouds slowly sidle by, and Loki lies with his head on Steve's chest, lying on his side at a right angle to Steve's own body. Idly, Steve lets his fingers play through Loki's hair, drawing dark strands out of their bun, and Loki lets him.

"The older you, the Ancient-Loki," Steve says, quietly. "Is he real? Or was he just like, I don't know, like a spirit guide?"

"He's real," Loki murmurs. "It rather seemed as if he'd gone through this whole situation before, so undoubtedly he has met other Lokis like myself, that cast off destiny in some way or other."

"What happens now?" Steve asks.

"I'm going to apply for a teaching position at one of the universities," Loki says. "Pursue my own research, present myself as… Quite naturalised. I will follow you on your SHIELD missions, do as you do."

"You'd serve your country, huh?"

"No," Loki says. "Serve isn't the word I'd use, but… I'd be doing it for you, Steven." Steve feels something hard in his chest soften and give way.

"Where will you live?"

"I don't know. I'll sort something out."

"Live with me." There is a short pause, and then Loki sits up on his elbow, staring down at him. Loki's expression is a mask of perplexity and concern. "What? I have an apartment. It isn't big, but you can fix that, right?" He looks at Loki, with his glasses on his face, his hair a mess of black around his face, and then he sees Loki smile.

"Here I am, supposedly brought to justice," Loki murmurs, amused. "And you would have me share your bed, my shackles unbroken. You ought be putting up some _token_ protest, you know." Loki looks away, staring out over the green grass, and his smile fades slightly. "There are things on the horizon, things… Things to come. This won't be easy."

"Nothing's easy," Steve murmurs. "Let it be ugly, let it be hard."

"I don't appreciate being quoted," Loki says, and Steve leans forward, kissing him hard on the mouth, pressing their lips together. When they part, Loki is left breathing heavily for a moment. "You're wearing the chain."

"Of course I am," Steve says. Loki catches him by the side of the neck, and he presses their foreheads together: the movement itself is foreign, calling back to a culture Steve isn't familiar with except through Loki and Thor, and yet—

It feels completely natural.

It's the most natural thing he's felt since he came out of the ice.

 **FIN**.


	21. Brought To Justice Epilogue

**September 15th, 2013  
2:02PM**

"Who's the new prof?" One of the students asks. He's a short guy with sandy brown hair, and Steve watches him as he leans into one of the other kids, a black boy with locks and braces.

"His name's _Bölson_ ," the kid says. "I don't know, I never heard of him before now." A rumble of thunder sounds, much too close to have come from outside, and Steve grins as he sees the students, most of them in their early twenties and only a handful of them mature students, shift and mutter to each other.

Loki appears at the front of the lecture theatre with a crackle of lightning that splits the air, and Steve grins at the way all the students gasp.

"I assume have your attention," Loki says silkily. He wears a blue sweater over a collared shirt and wine-coloured chinos. When he smiles, a shine of silver catches the light from inside his mouth, and he turns toward the blackboard, beginning to write on it in chalk. Steve had figured _chalk_ would have been outlawed long ago, but apparently, a lot of the mathematics departments still go in for it. "My name is Loki Bölson. I hail from the planet Jötunheimr, and I shall be lecturing you this semester in applied astrophysics." As he speaks, he is writing a complex equation upon the green stone of the board, and Steve can see every physics student begin scribbling it down or typing it onto their laptops. "I take attendance: if you miss one of my classes, I shall know."

Loki finishes the equation with a flourish, and he turns on his heel, smiling. "Before we begin," he says mildly, clasping his hands before his stomach. "Does anybody have any questions?"

Fifty right hands out of three hundred shoot up.

Steve grins, and he leans back in his seat to watch the lecture. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he glances at it.

 **Nick Fury, 14:05  
Need you and Loki tonight. We're out over a facility in Hawaii. Top secret.**

 **Steve Rogers, 14:05  
Got it.**

For now, though? For now, he'll just watch Loki do what he's good at.


	22. The Bastard Children Of Loki Of Asgard

**July 22nd, 2012  
10:00AM**

"You broke the connection, huh?" Anthony asks. He looks at Loki with the barest hint of uncertainty in his face, and Loki slowly bows his head. Does Anthony _fear_ him, Loki wonders? Loki settles in a suit of pastel blue, his glasses on his nose, his hair tied in a tight bun over his head. The bar through his ear is plainly visible. He doesn't _look_ like something to be feared – but then, Anthony is far too intelligent to worry about something as basic as appearances.

"I will be taking a sojourn to Asgard today," Loki says mildly, as if in response to the question. Every single person sat about the table stops in their place, and Loki smiles, thinly. "I have unfinished business there."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Steven asks, lowly.

"Oh, it is the _only_ idea," Loki replies quietly. "This is a most urgent matter and must be attended to with alacrity." Steven had left him at X-Mansion at Loki's behest, and as he had trained with the X-Men, his evenings had been devoted to more important considerations. Casting off the name of _Loki of Asgard…_ A most crucial matter indeed. If he is not quick, why, if news is to travel to Odin that he has cast off his bonds…

Better Loki do this now, while the metal is hot.

"Can I come?" Steven asks.

"I would be honoured if you would stand with me," Loki assents immediately. "It may become violent. You ought bring your shield."

"You need back-up?" Anthony asks, and immediately the others lean in – Bruce's expression is focused behind his spectacles, and Natasha and Clint each look focused. Wanda does not lean forward, but raises her chin higher, and looks _determined_. In Loki's chest, he feels a blossom of _affection_ bloom, and he smiles.

"Nay," he says. "Steven will be more than enough. Too many people behind me, and Odin will suspect—" Loki trails off, and he grins. "My thanks, to all of you. But it is better than Steven and I go alone."

"What're you gonna do?" Clint asks.

"Something cunning." Natasha smiles.

"Cool," she says. "Take pictures." Loki laughs.

"I shall endeavour to."

 **July 22nd, 2012  
11:21AM**

Steve pulls his helmet onto his head, strapping it under his chin. This suit is… Different. It's darker than other iterations and the star on his chest is quietly silver against the deep blue – comfortable, but stealthy. The only red left to his uniform is in the stripe of his shield now, and he reaches up, dragging his fingers over the star.

"This plan – I assume you have a plan?" He'd messaged Nick Fury to stay he'd be out of contact for at least a day.

"I have a plan," Loki confirms. The suit is gone. Now, he wears robes of dark blue, with silver accents— Steve turns from Loki to look at himself in the mirror, and he realises Loki has paired their colour schemes against one another. If anything, Steve looks like _he's_ been modelled after Loki. Loki's hair is tied up in a bun away from the nape of his head, with three or four strands hanging down the sides of his face, and he's put his glasses away, probably wearing the magical lenses he'd worked out from Namor's library. And then—

The illusion fades away. Loki stands as blue as the day he was born, and more than that, Steve can see the scars on his skin. The spattered scars around his eyes are beginning to fade, probably from whatever balm he's been rubbing on them, but the others stand in stark visibility. The pockmarks around his lips; the zig-zagging, lightning bursts of scars that ripple up the flesh of his bare arms; the heavy callouses and marks around his hands, and underneath those… The Jötunn marks are scored into Loki's flesh, following a pattern Steve can't quite puzzle out. The shine of the silver at his ear looks brighter than before.

"You ever been before them without an illusion before, right?" Steve asks.

"Never," Loki proclaims, and he puts out his hand. Steve takes it, feels the strange cold of Loki's flesh against his own, and Loki inhales, tipping his head back for a second. It makes the two marks – one from a noose of chain, Steve would guess, with its visible, separate links, and the other from a thin knife cutting halfway across Loki's neck – stand out in pale white against the blue of the skin. "But I have a plan. And no harm will come to you – no one would dare."

"Just what are you planning to do?" Steve asks.

"I can't tell you," Loki murmurs. "Heimdall is listening as we speak, and were he to hear me state my plan, he would be obligated to inform the Allfather of it. Rest assured, it is nothing that will put the realm of Midgard in danger."

 _The realm of Midgard_ , Steve thinks. _And what about Asgard_?

"Okay," he says.

"Heimdall," Loki says, more to the room at large than to Steve himself. "As you _are_ listening—" And then, it's like the room is tilting around them. This is completely different to Loki's version of _dimensional transitways_ , where the universe just neatly turns to put you somewhere else: the two of them are _soaring_ through space, and Steve can feel the wind rushing past his hair as he lets out a _whoop_ of delighted surprise. He can see Loki smiling, his scarred lips drawn up into the smile, and he grips tightly at Loki's hand and then at the front of his robes, unwilling to let them go.

They come to a stop in a beautiful, high-ceilinged room, made in a perfect semi-sphere. In awe, Steve stares around at the golden walls, where heavy windows show into different areas of space. He sees _galaxies_ , and nebulae – he sees strings of stars that shine green and blue instead of white, and he is blown away. Heimdall is tall. _Damn_ tall. Steve turns to look at him, dressed in shining gold armour, his hands clasped loosely around a huge sword that sits in the centre of a huge, key-like mechanism.

"I see the repairs are well underway," Loki says mildly.

"No thanks to you."

"T'was not I who wrought the bridge to pieces with a hammer," Loki says. Heimdall's lip curls, and his golden eyes settle hard on Loki's face, but Loki remains unflinching. He seems taller like this, in his Jötunn form with his robes touching the ground – Steve doesn't miss the way Heimdall's gaze flits to the piercing through Loki's left ear, and the marginal shake of his head. "Do not forget, Heimdall, that I can hide all I wish from your Allsight, if I so choose. So has it been for two thousand years." Loki's voice is gentle, and he reaches out, touching one of his hands to Heimdall's where it rests over the sword. This seems to surprise the man, because he stiffens, staring down at Loki's blue fingers as if he's never seen them before. "You have as much of my heart as Thor and the Lady Frigga, Heimdall."

Alarm shows in the man's face. "What brings you to Asgard?" Loki laughs.

"Foolishness," he says, and he drags his hand away. Steve looks out to where the globe shows an archway: a bridge made of rainbow crystal crumbles into pieces, and a rough rope bridge has been made between the city and this, the Watchtower. The city is unlike anything Steve has ever seen, full of golden spires and glittering in the sun. Loki puts out his hand to Steve again, and Steve takes it.

Loki walks upon the air.

Knowing the drill, Steve follows beside him, and the two of them walk over the rope bridge as if it isn't even there. Loki's gait is slow and statesman-like, his robes flowing around his ankles in the soft breeze. "What'd you mean?" Steve asks lowly. It's been… _Weird_ , living in Brooklyn, on his own. Especially knowing he'd invited Loki to live with him in a fit of impulsive thought, and… Well. Maybe it's sentimental of him. He keeps imagining Loki on the sofa, Loki in his bed, Loki complaining about the size of his meagre kitchen, and this is the first day he's seen Loki in _weeks_ , and here they are, marching on Asgard. "What you said to Heimdall?"

"It was Heimdall who found me, after my time with Svaðilfari. I told you that, that he carried me home. He walked for three days with me in his arms, clinging as desperately to him as if I was still the child who got so easily lost in the woods, even with my belly swollen, my whole form covered with blood… He didn't want to use the Bifrost because the magic would have shocked my system further, but he could have. Heimdall…" Loki sighs, and he shifts the position of Steve's hand in his own, linking their fingers together. "He is loyal to Asgard above all. He has betrayed countless kings in the service of Asgard as a realm, and yet he has always treated me with kindness, when I hate Asgard, and Asgard hates me. I find that very admirable."

"You're not gonna—" Steve stops. Loki can't tell him, he _knows_ , but God, it's hard to trust Loki when the guy is… What had Bruce called him? A bag full of cats? The description is still alarmingly accurate, no matter what his feelings for Loki are. "Do they really hate you? The Asgardians?"

"They hate magic, and women, and things they don't understand. I flit between the three categories like a bird between trees." Steve can see the city sprawling beneath them now, the bright golden spires of the bigger buildings, and the smaller buildings the lower classes must live in. He hears market hawkers calling out in a language just like English; he sees children running in the streets; he hears pigs and donkeys and cows—

They keep walking. Skywalking doesn't seem to take even the barest toll on Loki, and they move easily over the main bulk of the city, beginning to descend as they reach the great, golden steps of the palace. Some of the guards stop them, and immediately Steve can hear them yelling to one another, some of them rushing inside, but no alarm bells ring.

On some level, he guesses, they were expecting this. "Keep behind me, and to my left," Loki instructs in a low voice. "Your hands clasped in _front_ of you, never behind your back. Speak only when spoken to, and only if I give you the nod. I need to pick words very carefully, and I can't afford to let you speak freely: I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Steve says. The apology sounds genuine, at least, and he steps carefully onto the colourful stone in front of the palace's entrance.

"Einherjar, I would seek an audience with his royal majesty, King Odin Allfather, Son of Bor." This is spoken to a bearded guide with a thick beard at his chin, and the Einherjar stares at Loki for a long few moments, his grey eyes wide, before nodding. He marches with a quiet _clink, clink_ of his armour, and Loki follows after him. His silver slippers, which come up only to his ankle and leave his pale legs showing whenever the robes ride up, make no sound on the marble floor. Steve's boots do, though.

God, why is everything in Asgard so _massive_? They step into a wide throne hall with a ceiling so high Steve would need a helicopter to reach toward the top, and great pillars shine in gold, supporting the ceiling's arches. There are great statues, showing bearded men and beautiful women…

And there, sat upon the throne, is Odin. He sits up straight, clasping a spear tightly in his right hand, and he stares imperiously down at Loki.

Loki does not bow.

"Your majesty, King Odin Allfather, Son of Bor," Loki says. He doesn't use his god voice, doesn't let it thrum on the air, but the voice is princely and noble, loud and echoing in the great hall. Already, Steve can see people rushing inside – Thor, Mjölnir hanging from his hip, and a group of three men that stand around his shoulders, as well as a woman with long, dark hair. There are others, too: a tall woman that stands beside Thor – Frigga? – and impressive figures, both men and women… Gods, Steve realises. Almost all of these people are gods, and all of them are looking at Loki with horror, whispering amongst themselves, nudging one another as they go. "As your Einherjar seems too _starstruck_ , I shall present myself: to my left is my shield-mate, Steven Rogers of Midgard. _My_ name is Loki Skywalker, son of Böl." He introduces himself as if they've never met, and judging from the confused looks around the room, it's not a standard insult.

"Son of Böl?" Odin repeats, dryly. "You?"

"I," Loki confirms. _Böl_ , Loki has told him, means grief, sorrow…

"You've broken your bonds," Odin says, and he stands. With the spear beside him, up a flight of red-carpeted steps, he seems taller than ever. "And you dare to stand here, in the throne of my ancestors, wearing that filthy skin?" Loki smiles, and Steve stands a little straighter.

"Of course," Loki says, spreading his hands. "I come bearing _great news_ , Son of Bor!"

"What is that?"

"Ah, but my news is not for you alone," Loki says cheerfully. "I must call for a Council of the Gods." The smile disappears, and Loki throws magic upon the ground: a burst of seiðr burns itself into a silver circle, spreading out so widely that Loki and Odin are left at opposite ends of it, and Steve can see Odin's single eye widen in surprise. "I still have that right, I believe."

Odin lifts the spear, and with a loud _boom_ , he hits it upon the ground.

"A member of our Council has called for us to draw together," he declares, and he looks at Loki severely. "Take your places." Some of the Æsir move forward, taking their places at notches around the circle. The tall woman stands at Odin's left hand, and to his right stands Thor, who looks nothing less than _distraught_ , but holds his tongue. Steve sees a beautiful, red-haired woman that shoots Loki a look of scorn – he sees her hands have the marks of old burns on them: Freya, standing beside a man that must be her twin. A golden-haired young woman who stands hand-in-hand with a man whose beard reaches down to his waist – Iðunn, Loki's vague education supplies, and her husband Bragi. Heimdall is suddenly beside Bragi – he must have teleported in here.

"That's Forseti," Loki murmurs to Steve. "He wears mistletoe in his hair because he thinks it upsets me. There, Gefjon: a goddess of fertility in her own right. There, Kvasir. Njord and Jarnaxa, and that's Hoenir. The other woman with golden hair, the Vanir… That is my wife, Sigyn. There, Tyr… And here, Ve and Vili. Just one more." He turns back to the circle again, and feigns bafflement, rubbing at his chin. "I fear we miss one of our number!"

"Whom?" Odin demands.

"Why, Odin, Son of Bor! You have forgotten the best of us! Where is **Hel**?" The word thrums through the room, echoing off the golden walls, and Steve grabs hold of Loki's shoulder to keep from falling as the ground shudders beneath them. Loki's hand touches over Steve's own, keeping him steady until the earthquake stops, and then—

Steve sees her at the entrance of the throne hall.

Hel is a slight woman. Her long, black hair comes in silken waves down to her hips, unbraided, and she wears black, shimmering robes… Steve is reminded of Loki's robes as Motlordraugr, the robes he had worn to keep Steve from dying last month. Hel's skin is even paler than Loki's own in his Aesir form, with a blue tint to it: her lips are plumper than her father's, and her eyes are so black Steve thinks he can see the glitter of stars in them. The other gods and goddesses are visibly unsettled, most of them leaning away from Hel as she slowly approaches the circle – cold radiates out from her like heat out of a sun, and Loki gestures for her to take her place at his right hand side, as if paralleling Thor beside Odin.

"Father," she says. Her voice is rasping, like a winter's wind.

"Dottir," he replies, and his fingers brush against her shoulder – Steve doesn't think he misses the way they pass slightly _through_ the black-clad muscle. The centre of the circle flickers into flame, and Steve stares at its blue crackle. "Very good. So glad to see you all – glad tidings do I bring."

"No one here trusts you, Loki," Freya says, her voice harsh. "Get on with it." Loki scoffs.

"Oh, as if _any_ of us trusts each other. You think you can deceive _me_ , my dear? You forget your place, and mine. But that is the subject on which I would speak! You notice, I suspect, that I do not wear the skin Odin painted me with when he stole me from the temple in Jötunheimr." Odin's lip curls. Most of the Council remains silent – each of them looks at one another, but not one of them dares to say anything, and Loki's smile is thin where it settles on his mouth. "Come now. Most of you did _know_. I am not of Asgard. I am of Jötunheimr."

"Get on with it," Odin says.

"Temper, temper, Son of Bor. We are all equals upon this Council, are we not?" What the Hell is he _doing_? Steve clasps his hands a little more tightly where they're held in front of his stomach: each of the gods is getting more irritable as the seconds tick by. "Nearly all of us, anyway. Well, worry not!" Loki conjures a helmet – Steve recognizes it as the helmet he had worn when he had invaded Midgard. "I stand before you today, esteemed Council, to renounce – officially – my title as Loki, Son of Odin, Husband of Sigyn, Son of Frigga, Brother of Thor." He throws the helmet into the fire, and Steve stares as the blue flame _devours_ it, the brassy metal sparking.

"What?" Thor demands. "What does that— What do you _mean_?"

"I cast off all claim to Asgard," Loki continues, throwing folded green armour into the flame. "And all of Asgardian law. I break my bonds to all of you, and I renounce my destiny as Loki of Asgard." Sigyn's hands are clenched into tight fists, and Thor doesn't think he imagines the tears welling in her almond-shaped eyes.

"Renounce your destiny?" Bragi repeats. His voice is soft and lilting. "But you cannot do that. The Norns themselves will never assent."

"They will if the Council votes unanimously to accept my request," Loki says. His voice is low, and his gaze is concentrated solely on Odin's face. Odin's jaw is clenched tightly, his grip just as tight upon the spear. "I would take what possessions I have, what scant links I have to Asgard, and I will remove myself from the annals of Asgard's bloody future. Never will you need to bind me with chains come Ragnarok, for Ragnarok shall be irrelevant to me. Never need any of you think of me ever again." Most of the gods look… _Excited_. Bragi is running his fingers through his beard; Freyr and Freya are nudging one another. Njord and Jarnaxa are looking at one another with no small amount of delight.

"If you do this," the tall woman says, her voice quiet, "I will not be your mother."

"My Lady Frigga, I come here to cast off the link to Asgard that has ever plagued me, ever cursed me, but not even the power of the Elders themselves could serve to tear out from me the love I hold for you, or for Thor. For any of you. Bar Freya." Freyr laughs, and Freya looks _mulishly_ at Loki, but Frigga's hand is on her heart, and tears shine in her eyes. "Esteemed Council, I seek only my freedom from your law. Ever and anon have I left Asgard, and ever and anon have I been destined to return, dragged back my forces I could not resist – destiny itself. Let me break that bond. All of you have wished eagerly for the day I should leave for Niflheim, have you not? And look at the scars Asgard has given me – my mouth torn to pieces, my eyes burned…" Loki's voice is as quiet as Frigga's had been, _entreating_ the council around him. "Allow me to be Loki, Son of Böl. Never shall I lay a claim upon the throne of Asgard; never shall any of you be tarred by my name. Strike my name from my record, and I shall go elsewhere."

"And what do you demand in return for this _gift_ you offer us, Loki?" Odin asks. Thor's head whips around to look at his father in shock and horror, and Loki smiles.

"Are you worried, Allfather, that I shall take back that which I have gifted to those of this council? The spear Gungir, after all, was acquired by _me_. Bragi's lyre, of my making. And—" Suddenly, Loki is across the room, standing in the middle of the circle, and he holds his hands out to Thor. "Even the hammer _Mjölnir_?" Thor looks at Loki with disgust and shame on his face, and he grips tightly at the handle of the hammer.

"You could not wield Mjölnir." Steve can't see Loki's face from here, but he sees the slight tilt of his head as he stares at his brother.

"Really?" Loki asks lowly. "Then why are you afeared to hand it to me?" Before Thor can answer, Loki is back on the other side of the circle, and he chuckles, as if at his own joke. "Nay, I ask only for the freedom of this Council, and of Asgard. I would ask the boon that I be permitted my freedom to visit, but with the understanding I have as little right to the things of Asgard as any stranger."

"Has anyone objection?" Odin asks, quietly.

"There must be some trick," Heimdall says, quietly. "Some secreted thing Loki hides from us."

"Always," Loki agrees. "There are thousands of things I have not told this Council. But who among us keeps not secrets from his brothers and sisters?" The silence is positively _eerie_. Not one of the gods will look at one another: everybody's eyes focus on the flickering blue flames in the middle of the circle instead. "I'm afraid I cannot allow you time to deliberate. This is a one-time offer. Your duty to Asgard as a whole must come before any middling connections you feel toward _me_. How much better off will Asgard be, without the Mischief-Maker wreaking his havoc?"

"All in favour," Hel rasps out, even as she raises her right hand into the air. "The right hand high." She has been utterly silent throughout all these proceedings, and Steve has to wonder… Does she know what her father is doing? Does she know what his plan is? Almost all of the hands rise up. Heimdall looks suspiciously at Loki, but then he raises his right hand.

"Brother," Thor begins.

"Thor," Loki whispers. "If you _love_ me, raise your hand." Loki's hand is raised as high as his daughter's, held straight, the palm flat. Odin doesn't seem to be voting, and there are two hold-outs – Frigga and Sigyn. Frigga stands with her hands crossed tightly over her chest, and Loki turns to her first. "My lady," Loki says softly. "Surely you would not put the kingdom of Asgard under the Jötunn you took for a son?"

"You are my son," Frigga declares. "You shall remain so."

"Raise your hand, woman," Loki snaps. "Or I shall never speak to you again." There are gasps of shock and horror, and Frigga herself draws herself up, her lips pressing into a thin line. She stares at Loki, her blue eyes full of anger, but Loki's expression is quietly neutral. "And Sigyn… We are husband and wife in name only. You might find another husband, better than I. Easily." Sigyn's dark eyes flit from Loki to Steve, and for a long few moments she says nothing.

"Is this what you desire, Loki?" Sigyn asks, softly. There is an accent to her voice, one that shows her as one of the Vanir – not of Asgard, just like Loki himself. Loki nods. "Is it worth making our children bastards, even as they are now dead?" After a long pause, Loki nods his head once more. "Truly?"

"Truly," Loki promises, softly. Sigyn slowly raises her hand. After a long moment, Frigga does the same.

"The motion passes unanimously," Odin declares. "You are no longer Loki of Asgard, the land that raised you. You have no claim to this throne, nor to any of us as your brothers, your sisters, your family. Your bloodline dissolves; your past links are severed. You are a stranger to Asgard, now." Odin's spear pounds once more against the ground. "The Council of the Gods is dismissed."

" _Actually_ ," Loki says, in a voice so soft and serpentine that Steve has to strain to hear it. He sees the fear pass over the faces of the gods, sees every one of them – even Frigga and Thor – look _terrified_. "There's one more thing." Odin's grip tightens around the spear, his ancient knuckles turning white. "It's a little thing, really. I promise." Loki laughs. The scarred, blue fades away, replaced by marble white once more. "It's… Oh, Son of Bor, it is so tiny you'll scarcely notice it." Loki is all but _bouncing_ on his heels, he's so excited, and his delight is almost infectious: it's obvious he's satisfied to scare all the others so much. "Bragi, my _dear_ friend. Pray, will you tell us of the prophesied Ragnarok?"

Bragi stares at Loki, and then looks askance to the council at large. No one objects, and so Bragi says, "T'was prophesied the children of Loki would lead to Ragnarok, and thus were they taken cast to the three corners of the Yggdrasil. One bound in chains in the base of the palace; another to rule the realm of Niflheim, and the other in the great seas. And when Ragnarok—"

"Mmm, no, don't care about that bit," Loki says, waving his hand. "Pray, clear something up for me. What children?"

"What?"

"You say the children of Loki. Why, I have no children. I have no link to Asgard whatsoever. The children of Sigyn are retroactively fatherless, in the eyes of Asgardian law. So too are the children of the Jötunn Angrboða." Hel gasps, her right hand covering her mouth, and Steve can see the light of understanding in her dark eyes, the _joy_. "The Council of the Gods once declared that the children of Loki must be ripped from his breast and taken captive, so that they could not bring about Ragnarok. Why, what a silly decision that was, when Loki has no children! Obviously, the _caging_ of Fenrisúlfr, Jormungandr and Hel was a case of mistaken identity, and the three of them must be released immediately."

"No." Loki's head whips toward Odin, and immediately he steps forward, onto the air itself. The air is abruptly crackling with power, with energy, and Steve stares as Odin take a step back from the freezing power that radiates from his son – no, not his son. From Loki.

" _No_?" Loki repeats, his voice thrumming with power. "Give me your reasoning, Son of Bor! Why?"

"Because they are destined to bring about Ragnarok. I shall _not_ release them for—"

"Nay," Loki growls. "The children of _Loki_ are destined to bring about Ragnarok. Those bastard children are destined for naught but freedom, and you shall give it back to them."

"You cannot deny this, Son of Bor," Hel says with her rasping voice, laughing as she does so. Frost forms on the floor around her ghostly feet. "The stranger is _right_. No longer can that old prophesy bind us, for we are not the children of Loki."

"I can prove destiny for you, if you like," Loki whispers. "I'll bring about Ragnarok myself."

" _Loki!_ " Thor growls, and Loki laughs.

"Release my children, or perish." Steve can see it pains Odin to do so. He can see the tremble of that ancient lip, the twitch of his single remaining eye.

"I should have left you to die on that rock," Odin says.

"Perhaps so," Loki agrees. "Too late now, Allfather. Too late now."

 **Summer  
Noon**

Loki is sobbing openly.

Steve stands at the edge of the bridge, watching as he stands in the centre of his children. Hel is completely solid now, pale but given a physical form, and he clutches her so tightly to his side it looks like she's about to break; Loki's forehead is pressed tightly to that of Fenrisúlfr's, a great black wolf that howls low in his throat as he presses close to his father; and around them curls a gigantic snake with rippling, green coils, its tail bloody and heavy with wounds.

Tears flow freely down Loki's cheeks, and Steve can hear his fevered apologies, hear all three of them – Jormungandr, Fenrisúlfr and Hel – talking at once as they hold tight to him, so tightly they'll never let go.

Seiðr is flowing from Loki's hands, and he heals the rusted, ugly wounds of shackles around Fenrisúlfr's four ankles, his neck; he heals the ugly, tattered end of Jormungandr's tail, healing where the snake's own teeth had dug into it.

"Steven," Loki says raggedly. Steve hesitates, but Loki is looking directly at him, gesturing for him to come closer. Steve turns to the side, looking at the gods and Æsir alike gathered at the city's edge, staring down at Loki not of Asgard as he is finally reunited with the children he hasn't seen in over a thousand years. Odin looks disgusted. Thor, though, looks… Sad. He, Sigyn and Frigga stand together, Frigga's hands entwined with Thor's and Sigyn's alike.

Steve jumps down from the bridge and begins to move across the beach. He walks slowly, almost scared that one of them will lunge toward him, but they each hold their place. Jormungandr must be _hundreds_ of feet long, his body easily twice Loki's height in width, and Fenrisúlfr is no puppy either – he's forty feet at the shoulder, and his skull is almost as big as Loki is in size.

"This is Steven Rogers," Loki whispers. "Come, come, Steven, you can—" Steve walks so close he can feel the warmth that radiates from Jormungandr, and – very carefully – he lays his hand on Jormungandr's side. Jormungandr's scales are nearly five times to size of Steve's hand, and Steve swallows dryly as Jormungandr leans in. His eyes are amber, and they're _huge_ in diameter, but the snake is… Smiling.

"Sssteven," Jormungandr whispers. His tongue flicks out, tasting the air. "You taste of Midgard."

"Yes," Steve says. "I'm— I'm from New York."

"Ah," Jormungandr sighs, and he leans in closer: his huge nose gently butts against the top of Steve's skull, the touch unspeakably gentle despite the greatness of his size. Loki and Hel climb out from between Jormungandr's coils, and Hel's hand is cool in Steve's own as she moves to shake it.

"My name is Hel," she says softly. "For so long I have ruled Niflheim, not quite dead, not quite living… To feel the sun on my face—" She looks up at the sky, which is brightly blue, with not a cloud in sight. "It is truly glorious. Father tells me if it were not for you, he would never have come to this scheme." Her hands touch his cheeks, and she leans in, pressing their foreheads together for a second, and then she pulls away. She clambers onto Jormungandr's back, laughing as he tosses her into the sand, and as they wrestle, Fenrisúlfr pads forward.

"Steven," he declares. His wolfish jaws snap as he looks Steve in the eye: his eyes are shining silver, molten in the light. "You have the spirit of a wolf."

"Nay," Loki murmurs, patting his son's flank. "A lion." Fenrisúlfr laughs, and his silver eyes burn with flame as he does so, he bows his head, and Steve takes the cue Jormungandr and Hel had given him – awkwardly, he presses his own forehead head to the hard piece of skull between Fenrisúlfr's eyes, feeling the great wolf's breath hot against his feet, feeling the thick coarseness of his fur.

"You make him smile," Fenrisúlfr whispers. "You make his heart sing."

"I try," Steve whispers back. Fenrisúlfr leans away, turning to run in the water with Jormungandr and Hel – despite the difference in their sizes, they move against one another naturally, and it's obvious that despite her small size, Hel has no problem picking up _either_ of her brothers.

Loki sniffles, quietly, and Steve holds out a handkerchief from his pocket. Loki laughs and takes it, wiping at his eyes. "Do you want to see something?" Loki asks.

"Sure," Steve says. The illusion passes from Loki's face. Although his mouth remains marked over with scars and pock marks, his eyes are completely clear. The acid wash that was once heavy on his eyes, gluing his eyelashes together in places, lightening the colour of his eyes… It's all gone. "You're kidding."

"My vision is quite perfect," Loki murmurs. "That destiny is shattered now. Already it had been loosening its hold, but now—" Loki slides forward, his left hand drawing around Steve's hip, and his right hand links with Steve's: they stand posed as if they're about to start dancing, and the tired smile on Loki's face shows nothing but joy. "They're free. All three of them, _free_ …"

"Don't cry anymore," Steve says in a soft voice, and Loki smiles, leaning in. Loki's forehead is a welcome touch against Steve's own, and he wonders what this means, _exactly_ , why it's so significant that all three of Loki's children felt the need to do it with him, a complete _stranger_ …

"I suppose I'll try not to," Loki replies. "Orders are orders."

"That was— What you did. That was really smart."

"Would that I'd thought of it centuries ago," Loki says. He laughs, breathlessly. "I can't believe it."

"Loki." Loki draws away from Steve, but not before his left hand shifts from Steve's face and to the side of his neck instead, clutching at him protectively. Thor stands, breathing slightly heavily, on the beach. He levels Steve with a hard stare, but Loki shifts their position marginally, so that Steve is behind Loki instead of beside him. "I didn't know. I would have— If I'd known, I would have supported it from the beginning."

"I know," Loki says. "You ought introduce yourself. They've never had the chance to know their uncle."

"Am I their uncle, then?" Thor asks, in a whisper.

"As much as you are my brother," Loki says. Steve steps back just in time: Thor's arms wrap hard around Loki's body, and Loki hugs him back tightly, clutching at the back of his hair. There's a myriad of emotions on Loki's face, and Steve can see the turmoil inside him. "Frigga, Heimdall, Sigyn! What on _Earth_ are you doing up there? Come meet my children! Volstagg, Fandral, Hogu— _All_ of you. Come now. That includes you, Sif, I can see your hesitation."

Already a green-clad figure with blond hair is moving forward, and Loki grabs him in a tight hug, kissing both of his cheeks. They linger for just a second longer than Steve really likes, and then Loki goes to a giant of a man with red hair and a confused expression on his face, shaking his hand. Then, a Vanir man, then the woman Thor had seen earlier, with tight braids in her hair.

He hugs Frigga, and he kisses Sigyn on the mouth, but it's chaste, and tender. Hel, Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr are shaking the water from their forms as they come to the shore once more, and Steve watches as Hel greets Heimdall bodily, clutching at his hands and turning to introduce him to her brothers.

All three of them are stiff and slightly awkward, overly formal, but Steve can see they're following Loki's example – not one of them shows anger, or resentment. Steve remembers Loki's memory, the one Loki had showed him in the lake at X-Mansion – he thinks of the Ancient-Loki's children, who chose peace instead of revenge and died for it. Nobody's dying here.

The sun is high in the sky as Bragi comes down to the beach with a lyre in his hand – the lyre Loki had made him? – and begins to play.

"You do not join the festivities," Loki says quietly. Music drifts through the open archways, from down below in the city. The throne room is dark, with only two lanterns lit despite the rapid blanket of the night closing in, and Loki can barely see the King of Asgard sat upon his throne.

"I don't need to see the trick to know it is coming," Odin says, lowly. "They will destroy Asgard."

"Nay," Loki replies. His slippers make no noise as he comes forward, easily ascending the steps toward the throne. "Already, I have decided upon lodgings for Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr each, on a planet far from here. Hel is uncertain, but she thinks she will take a place upon Midgard."

"Then _you_ will destroy Asgard." Loki looks at his father's face, draped in darkness, and he conjures a seat of wood for him to sit upon, his back facing the conference room, his face toward Odin himself.

"No," Loki says. "I had a vision."

"A vision?" Odin repeats. "You have never been a diviner before now."

"I had to change to break the bonds I was in," Loki says simply. "I opened myself to the heat of the multiverse, and forcibly broadened my horizons." Odin's eye rests heavily on Loki's face, his lips twisted into a deep scowl. "In my vision, I met anther Loki, far removed from I. He was ancient with the weight of a billion realities… He too shucked off destiny, and thus circumvented Ragnarok."

"There are things you know not, boy," Odin says lowly, his voice scarce more than a growl. Loki laughs.

" _Boy_. Evidently, there are things you know not yourself, old man." Loki looks out into the darkness of the hall, where some of the remaining light is shining in through the golden arches. "I never desired the throne, you know. I merely wished for your assurance that I would be as good a king as any."

Odin is silent.

"I don't wish to kill you," Loki murmurs. "Nor do I want revenge upon you for the ways you have wronged me, for you have done me kindnesses, too. You said yourself t'was my birthright to die, and yet you took me in. You allowed me to ascend to the Council of the Gods; you hid the truth of Sleipnir's birth from all, as you did the embarrassment of my own lineage. In your own, twisted way, I think you have loved me. Even in your permitting the murder of Angrboða, the secret of my birth, your sharp words… Even in those acts, I think you held a love for me, as wrong as they were."

Odin is silent.

"But you are old, and foolish. Your bitterness and your prejudice blinds you to the truth of the universe far more than your lost eye. You are greedy, and selfish, and vengeful. You hoard so many secrets that you do not realise you can lighten the load of them upon your shoulders…" All of these things describe Loki, in one way or another. The Loki he was – the Loki he still is. The Loki he must break out of. Loki sighs, and he stands. He leans forward, and he feels Odin tilt his neck back just slightly, expecting a blade at his throat.

Loki catches the back of his grey head, and he presses their brows together. He hears Odin's _gasp_ , although Loki's own eyes are tightly shut and he will not look at the Allfather's face. This is an old, ancient symbol upon Asgard – peace, and family, and trust, all at once. Odin's tired brow is wrinkled and warm against Loki's own, and he can smell the scent of the old man's armours, the ointment in his hair, the oil that shines his spear.

"My son," Odin whispers, his voice cracking with age and emotion alike.

"Father," Loki whispers back. "All is well." He could stab him. H could pierce Odin with his own spear, right here, murder him forevermore— Loki finds he does not wish to. How foreign is that sensation. _Forgiveness_. Loki draws away, and he begins to walk down the stairs.

"I do, you know."

"Do what?" Loki says, freezing on the stair. His heart skips a beat in his chest.

Odin is silent.

"What happens now?" Fandral asks, quietly. He and Loki stand side by side, their elbows rested against the wall that separates the city of Asgard from the path down to the beach below. On the distant horizon, the sun is but a golden sliver as it disappears beneath the water.

"I will take my children far from here," Loki says simply. "Jormungandr to a great planet where he can rule all, amidst a wide ocean… Fenrisúlfr to that planet too. I have one in mind, and the planet itself is populated only by beasts and wild things. The two of them would be the greatest intelligences on the planet."

"And Hel?"

"She isn't certain. I think she will travel somewhat, as I did in my youth." Loki feels the weight of the day's work upon his shoulders: the last of his mischiefs upon Asgard, and the greatest. The finality of it all cuts him to the bone. "I will back to Midgard."

"With Steven," Fandral murmurs, a little tease creeping into his voice, and Loki smiles.

"With Steven," Loki agrees. Fandral sighs, looking out over the water. Fenrisúlfr is laying upon the beach, talking at length with the man in question: Steven has his shield laid over his lap, and is giving a blow-by-blow account of some tale or other. Volstagg and Hogun are listening with him, and when Fenrisúlfr laughs, his rasping chuckles mingle with Volstagg's loud ones. "He's a good man."

"It seems you are, these days," Fandral replies. Loki shakes his head.

"No," he says. "No, I'm not. But I think…" He trails off, and he turns to meet Fandral's gaze. "Do you think I could be?"

"Always," Fandral says, and his hand touches Loki's shoulder. "You can be anything, Loki. Anything you want. I've long-since known that." Loki smiles. The expression is soft, and it feels as natural as anything where it settles on his face.

"Thank you, Fandral. Truly. Your faith… It means a lot to me." Fandral's hand draws away. "We ought return. Fenrisúlfr has just challenged Volstagg to spar with him." Fandral claps his hands together, letting out a low sound of delight.

"Sounds like it's time for a bet!"

 **July 27th, 2012  
10:12PM**

Loki sags against the wall, and Steve laughs at him as he shuts the apartment door behind them. Once they had left Asgard, it had taken a few days to settle Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr on the planet Loki had mentioned, and then they'd spent time with Hel, showing her Loki's library in the Fon System. Turns out Loki had had a few dozen house deeds on a few planets, and it had been—

Incredible.

Stepping on completely foreign soils, seeing all kinds of aliens, as Loki had shown Hel new choices for places to live, opened the world up to her… It had been unlike any experience Steve had ever _had_.

And understandably, now, Loki is absolutely exhausted.

"Come on, big guy," Steve murmurs, and he catches Loki by the back of the knees, lifting him away from the wall. Loki is wearing a light skirt and blouse, and he is limp in Steve's arms as Steve carries him into the bedroom.

"This is all changing before I make my home here," Loki mumbles, his eyes closed.

"You're not even _looking_ at it," Steve points out, unable not to laugh.

"I don't need to." But Loki's lips are quirked into a little smile, and Steve drops him onto the bed, sliding onto the bed beside him. "My face hurts from smiling so much, this past week… I never believed I could feel such joy." Loki pulls Steve close to him, and Steve presses his face against the hard, cool panel of Loki's chest. "I'm rather torn."

"Between?"

"Ravishing you, or sleeping for fifteen hours in a row."

"I think we can go with both," Steve murmurs. "You know, we could do the ravishing after the sleep… Or I could wake you up seven and a half hours in, get some ravishing in there, and then go back to sleep." Loki laughs. "Go to sleep."

"Alright," Loki assents. His fingers press under Steve's light tunic – something Hel had picked out for him, that is distinctly _not_ Earth-like, but is comfortable and warm – and slide over his spine. "Join me? Keep me _warm_."

"Okay," Steve murmurs.

Loki uploads no less than 347 photographs of his children to Facebook, as well as some 100 others of different planets. Natasha Romanov **Likes** every single one.


	23. The Chains We Break 1

**July 28th, 2012  
6:04AM**

Steve wakes up cold. He shifts slightly in his bed, feeling the cool expanse beneath him, and then he grins, just slightly. Steve's cheek is laid on the flat, hard pillow of Loki's chest, and his arm is slung loosely around the other man's hips. Loki is awake, his elbow resting gently on Steve's shoulder as he scrolls through a page on his phone.

Wikipedia.

"Where's the Great Bitter Lake, then?" Steve asks, lowly.

"Egypt," Loki answers. "It has a very high salinity, apparently." Steve laughs, pressing his nose against Loki's pectorals, and then he leans back, sitting up in bed. Loki's expression is quietly pensive as he draws his fingers over the sheet beneath him. "This was… Pleasant. It's been a long time since I shared a bed with someone."

"We shared a bed a while back," Steve points out.

"That was different. You were drunk." Loki looks out toward the window, slowly moving off the bed and moving toward the window. Completely naked, he rests his hands on the window sill, and he looks outside – Steve doesn't need to see his face to know he's annoyed. "So many buildings in this city," he says mildly. "One can look from one to a view in another."

"I don't mind you fixing up the apartment," Steve says. "You can— You can do whatever you want with it." Loki's hair hangs thickly around his shoulders, and Steve can see the smooth line of his spine down to the curve of his backside, the expanse of his thighs, his calves…

"You have so little," Loki murmurs. "So much of what you own has been lost to you – I should hate to take this away." Steve hesitates for a second, looking around the grey walls of the apartment, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He thinks of the houses they'd stayed in while they were travelling around the Fon System – some were positively palatial, with white-washed walls and huge windows, but one of them… There was a cottage overlooking the sea, on some warm planet with grass that _sang_ as you walked over it. Small, and homey.

"This isn't mine," Steve says quietly. "SHIELD bought this thing, put the deed in my name… But look at it." Loki turns, looking at the walls, the drab furniture.

"It's horrid," he says. Steve laughs.

" _Yeah_ , but… Loki, I haven't really lived here. I don't— Loki, I was in the army for _years_. We'd go from one camp to another, we'd be on the move. I don't know how to decorate an apartment. This is what SHIELD gave me, and I've just left it. Whatever you wanted to do to it, I think I'd like it." Loki crosses his arms loosely over his chest, leaning back against the window. He looks comfortable like this – confident, settled in his skin. It occurs to Steve that he's never really seen him like this, naked outside of the bathwater: he can see Loki's cock, small and soft where it comes away from his mons pubis. "What're you thinking?"

"We've rushed this," Loki murmurs, drawing his hand through his hair. "I can hardly… Cohabitation is a difficult thing. We've known each other for scarcely three months."

"You're three thousand years old, and I'm around ninety," Steve points out, keeping his tone casual. "Any period we know each other for is gonna be pretty short in the scheme of our lives." Loki's lips quirk into a smile. "Besides, it's… It's expensive, here in New York. I own this place, I just pay the bills with my salary, and I have savings. You…"

"Are up shit creek without a credit score?" Steve sniggers.

"Who taught you that one?" Loki smiles wanly.

"Logan." Steve runs his hand through his hair, and he pulls himself out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers, and he steps a little closer. He thinks of Loki with his arms wrapped around Steve's body, thinks of Loki's forehead pressed tight against his own—

"The forehead thing. What does that mean?" Steve asks. Loki presses his lips loosely together, and he leans closer, his fingers sliding cool and pleasant over Steve's hips, resting against the bone. "Hel, Jormungandr, and Fenrisúlfr—" Loki's lips quirk into a smile at Steve's _flawless_ pronunciation. "They all did it. When we met, and then when we left… I kinda got the feeling it's significant."

"It's significant," Loki confirms. "There are many little gestures you Midgardians take for granted, as if they are universal. Shaking hands, for example. Bowing – bowing is an act of _aggression_ , for Nakomians, for it signals you are about to butt heads. To press your lips to someone else's is a great taboo for some cultures – even to hug can be deeply unsettling for cultures that frown upon such physical contact. Asgard has its own gestures. Most are similar to those of Midgard, but many are lost in the annals of your history."

Loki leans closer, and he very carefully touches his forehead to Steve's own. Their noses are brushing against each other, and like this Steve is looking right into the shining depths of Loki's blue eyes. "Consider," he murmurs under his breath. "Like this, our faces are touching… My left hand is against your neck, where I can feel the pump of the blood in your veins. We are nose to nose, mouth to mouth… We can see nothing but one another. If I wished to kill you, right now, I could. In this position, your belly is vulnerable, your chest… And you wouldn't see the knife until it was plunged within you. This, for a warrior people, this is _trust_. At its core."

"I've seen you and Thor do this," Steve murmurs. "He always trusts you." Steve can barely see the curve of Loki's smile, only really seeing it in the periphery of his vision. "But it's not just… _Anybody_ , right?"

"This is for family," Loki murmurs. "Family, the closest shield-mates, or spouses." Steve feels his breath catch in his throat. "I'm sorry, the three of them _assumed_ … And I didn't want it to appear to the Asgardians as if I were rejecting you when my children were embracing you." Loki shifts away slightly, but his left hand lingers cool and gentle on the side of Steve's neck, his thumb drawing over the skin.

"That why you're scared of rushing things? 'Cause of what the Asgardians think?" Loki closes his eyes, and he looks conflicted for a long moment, his expression pinched and tight. Steve can see his uncertainty, his _reluctance_. "I don't mind if you're uncomfortable with living together, if you don't feel you can handle living with me. We can find you somewhere. But if it's just… You're a little worried other people _think_ we're rushing it—"

"That's not it," Loki mutters. "Do you know how long I knew Sigyn for, before we married?" Steve hesitates, and then he shakes his head. "Three days. No Asgardian would consider this relationship rushed. The Æsir… Their emotions run deeply, with turbulence. The beats of their hearts may be slow, but the feeling therein is positively hyperbolic."

"What about Jötnar?" Loki's lips thin into a line.

"I'll decorate the apartment," Loki says. "I'll make this… Bigger. The furniture… Are you attached to it?"

"Nah," Steve mutters. "It came pre-furnished."

"No photographs," Loki murmurs.

"I never figured I'd be here long," Steve admits. "And like I said, I don't… I lived with my mom 'til she died, and then I lived with Bucky. I never, uh. I draw sketches, but I've never been a big guy for material stuff. Brooklyn in the 40s, you know, it's not like there was space to keep a lot of stuff." Loki looks at Steve's face, studying the lines of his features, and he sighs. "Most of the places we visited didn't have much. And your bedroom doesn't have too much in it. Just books."

"I didn't expect to be there long," Loki replies, mildly.

"Liar," Steve murmurs.

"I didn't want anyone rifling through my possessions. I don't keep valuables on display."

"On display? It was _your_ room."

"A room any of you could enter at any time," Loki points out. "A room any of you could choose to search, even destroy the contents of, if it suited you." Steve frowns, his brow furrowing.

"We'd never— None of us would do that." Loki shrugs his shoulders.

"I know that now." He slides past Steve, and then he slowly slides back onto the bed, spreading his thighs open so far that Steve can't help the way his own eyebrows raise, _staring_. Very deliberately, Loki drags his tongue from the base of his fingers to the tip, and then he slides them between his legs. Steve stares as he lets them play over the lips of his entrance, slowly. "I believe," Loki murmurs, very quietly, "I was promised several hours of ravishment."

"I don't think that's true," Steve says. "I think _you_ were meant to ravish _me_." Nonetheless, he takes a slow step forward, sliding down onto the edge of the bed, and he drags his mouth slowly over the length of Loki's muscled thigh, feeling the way he _shivers_ under the touch. Loki's hand draws back, and Steve looks at Loki's pussy, properly, now. "You have testes, right?"

"They're internal." Loki's cock, flaccid, is maybe two inches long, and it's just like a clitoris, but bigger. There's no hood on it, and no foreskin – Loki's cock is slightly tapered at the end, and Steve reaches out, dragging his thumb over it. Loki hisses, softly, and Steve drags his thumb – wet with spit – down the side of Loki's inner lip, which is wrinkled and tinged blue in the light. And the _flesh_ around Loki's pussy is… Fat. Steve reaches out, taking hold of Loki's outer lips with his finger and thumb, feeling it soft and yielding as he _tugs_ , gently. A soft sound comes from between Loki's parted lips, and Steve looks up at him to see his face.

Loki looks _hungry_. It's a feral sort of hunger, slightly inhuman around the edges – the planes of Loki's face seem harder than usual, his teeth a little sharper, and his eyes are glittering with something _new…_ Steve leans, and he drags his tongue from Loki's open entrance to the tip of his cock, and the expression shatters, replaced by something desperate as Loki's back arches, his head tipping back. People keep expecting Steve to be shy about sex, as if he's never had it before, as if sex before marriage didn't _exist_ in the 40s, but sex with Loki is something else entirely. Loki doesn't expect anything except for Steve to _touch_ him.

"Tell me about your first time," Steve murmurs against Loki's thigh, feeling him stiffen. "No, not that. The first time you _really_ had sex." Loki stares down at him, uncomprehending, and Steve smiles, pressing a kiss to the crease where Loki's thigh meets his loins. "For me?"

"For you," Loki repeats, softly.

"You don't have to," Steve murmurs, stroking a comforting circle against the lower part of Loki's left thigh. "Something else, maybe—"

"No," Loki says. "No, it isn't traumatic. I just don't think of it often. I'll tell you." Distantly, Loki smiles. "The questions you ask… I don't think you appreciate how uncommon they are."

"Uncommon questions," Steve says, shrugging his shoulders. "What else do you ask an uncommon man?" Something shifts in Loki's face at that, a slight pinch coming to his lips, as if he's been given a particularly difficult puzzle and he can't quite work out how to begin. "Loki? You okay?"

"Yes," Loki says. "It was… In Alfheim."

 **July 28th, 2012  
6:21AM**

Steven's breath is hot where it ghosts over Loki's cunt, and it makes Loki feel _quake_. Steven's hands are sliding smooth and strong over the flesh of his thighs, and then he dips, lapping his tongue at the very entrance of Loki's quim, playing over the soft skin around the muscle there. "We were in Alfheim for some… For some reason. I don't recall precisely – I want to say we were hunting a gvorne, which is a sort of oversized hog uncommon in the Nine Realms, but I feel I may be mixing memories. Everyone was very drunk bar myself, and I was of poor mood."

"How come?" Steven asks, and then he flicks his tongue over Loki's cock, making him gasp and jolt on the bed.

"I had been quarrelling with Thor, for that very week I had humiliated him on the proving ground. He had insisted if we fought a duel, and he won, that I would have to— That I should set my short blades aside and take up something else." Steven's eyes glance up to Loki, confusion showing in the furrow of his brow. "If you— Perhaps we should cease, if you wish me to tell this story."

"It is a little weird," Steven admits, and he leans forward, resting his chin hotly against Loki's belly. The position serves to set Loki's cock against the hot flesh of Steve's neck, and Loki twitches. Steven's expression is _entirely_ innocent, and his hands remain spread over Loki's thighs, his own legs awkwardly crouched beneath him. "Why'd he do that? Want you to stop using daggers?"

"He said people would mock me so if I used something else. He wasn't wrong. It ailed him, to see me so disliked by the peoples around us, particularly as a contingent had come from Vanaheim that week – Asgard conquered Vanaheim some years before Thor's birth, and they have long-since been a vassal state beneath the Asgardian throne. Vanir warriors are strong and honour-bound, even more so than the Aesir. Many times I had been accosted by a fellow who said it was unmanly for me to carry such petty knives upon my person."

"What did you do?"

"Mostly made an example of them. And then three of them took it upon themselves to, alongside three of our own Einherjar, teach me precisely what should happen to woman warriors." Steven sits back, his serious expression rather contrasting with the obscene splash of wetness against his throat, and Loki reaches out, wiping it away with some of Steven's ugly sheets. "Don't _look_ like that. They underestimated me. I killed the three Einherjar, and the three Vanir, I unmanned."

"Unmanned," Steven repeats. Loki keeps his gaze, smiling distantly. After a second, it clicks. " _Oh_."

"Quite," Loki murmurs. "Such sexual violence is outlawed, anyway, so they were to be executed as a matter of course – particularly when such attacks were directed toward a prince of the royal court."

"How long ago after Svaðilfari was it?" Steven asks, and Loki shakes his head.

"Nearly a century. I didn't tell you about Svaðilfari so that you could paint of me an image of a wilting flower," Loki says, his tone almost chiding, and Steven comes closer, his hands slipping either side of Loki's chest, coming closer. Their mouths are nearly touching, and Loki can feel the weight of Steven against him, and Loki draws his hand through the other man's hair.

"It's just— _Shitty_."

"You never heard of a boy being so assaulted, to punish him or correct him?" Steve sighs, pressing his face against Loki's first sternum.

"Too many times," he murmurs. Loki strokes slow, rhythmic lines down the muscular plane of Steve's back, feeling the shape of his shoulders and the lines of his ribs, his spine. "So Thor thought changing to a sword would make people, what, not want to hurt you anymore?"

"Something like that. I was taught to fight by my mother, who was taught to fight in the way of the Valkyries – a near-legendary caste of female warriors, all of whom were destroyed before we were born. Thor _adored_ the tales of the Valkyries, and would listen raptly if I ever told them, but… I was young, and boyish. No beard on my pale cheeks, and compared to most Æsir and Vanir, with how pale I was, unfreckled, but with dark hair, I was positively exotic."

"Like Snow White," Steven agrees, the sound muffled against Loki's chest, and when Loki playfully swats his backside in retort, Steven laughs.

"He initially attempted to phrase it as an order. Stormed into the training ground as I sparred with Hogun and commanded me to set my daggers down to pick up a spear instead."

"What did you do?"

"I threw a dagger at him, and it drove itself into his shoulder." He remembers it well, the way Thor had cried out in pain, his hand immediately going to the dagger to try to pry it out, the _anger_ that had shown in his face… "Then I refused to heal him. Insisted that if he wished me to dispense with my daggers, obviously he should wish I abandon my seiðr as well." Steve's flesh is warm and yielding under Loki's fingers, so much softer than that of the Æsir. "But later, he beseeched me. _Begged_ me to stop fighting like a woman, and to fight like a man instead. I responded that I already fought like a man, for I— I _am_ a man." _Is he, though?_ For the longest time, gender has been such a petty concern, to be abandoned by the wayside and met up to only upon a whim, but here, on Midgard… He has cast off all connection to Asgard. Why ought he prescribe to their notions of gender, now that he is of elsewhere instead?

"What did he say?" Steven asks softly, and he presses three kisses to Loki's sternum.

"He changed methods a third time, and elected for a bet, instead. He said that if I beat him in the arena without my daggers, and without my magic, I would have to swear to use a weapon more befitting a prince of Asgard. You must understand, Steven, none of this… We were so young. Both of us so full of pride, and with so little behind us. He was scarcely more than eight hundred years old – I was barely older than seven. We were the equivalent of eighteen and nineteen, perhaps. He only wanted this because he believed I would be safer, and happier."

"I know," Steven murmurs, his hands sliding slow from Loki's thighs to his hips. "Buck would say, sometimes… Nothing that _hurt_ me, not exactly. But sometimes he'd talk about guys like me who got caught by the cops or got killed… Kinda implied it was _their_ fault for getting hurt. That was just how the times were." It seems to _wound_ Steven to admit it, and Loki traces his spine. "You won, right?"

"Best of three. I won every single time. First, with Fandral's sword. Then, with Volstagg's axe. And then, with Hogun's mace. I was proving my mettle to them as much as to Thor, after all." Loki sighs, shaking his head. "He had convinced himself it was lack of ability that made me favour daggers over aught else, but I had trained as he had, with Father and with the palace guard. I could use any weapon I chose, with time to practice."

"Why choose the daggers? Just 'cause they're quick?" Loki thinks for a moment, considering the question. Undoubtedly, the daggers are quick and easy to use – easily they can either kill or incapacitate a foe, and he enjoys the flexibility in them, that he can throw them or use them in close quarters. But it is _more_ than that.

"Why use your shield?" He sees the thought on Steve's face, the consideration.

"It just— It feels natural. _Really_ natural. Like it's a part of me." Loki smiles.

"Yes," he agrees. "That's precisely it."

"So he was angry at you, and you were in a tavern on Alfheim?" Loki recalls the point of the tale, and he nods. Steve's warm weight is a distraction – but a welcome one – from his words.

"The Ljósálfr… Technically, barring the realm of the Dark Elves, Jötunheimr and Midgard itself, all of the Realms swear fealty to Asgard. Even Niflheim, now left without a ruler in Hel's absence." And— How shall that work, precisely? No, best not to think of it. "But the Ljósálfr will only permit so much of their own tradition to be lost. They are different indeed to the Asgardians and the Vanir – the Ljósálfr are fiercely in favour of peace, and they will fight viciously indeed to achieve it. Like the Jötnar, they favour poetry and magic more than blood sport, but…" Loki laughs, wryly. "They are permitted this where the Jötnar are not."

"Why?"

"Because they are beautiful," Loki says simply. "And the Jötnar are ugly."

With immediacy, with biting vehemence, Steve says, "That's not true." His eyes are dark, his nose twisted – such _fierceness_ in such a young face. Loki feels as if he sees his reflection in Steven Rogers, sometimes.

"I speak from the point of the view of the Æsir," Loki says diplomatically, his tone beseeching peace. Steven sits back, dragging his fingers over Loki's calf. He doesn't look like he believes Loki – but then, why should he? Loki doesn't believe himself.

"What do they look like? The Ljósálfr?" Loki's lip twitches – most Americans have a great deal of trouble using the Æsir words shared between Loki and Thor, and cannot wrap their tongues around the foreign lilts and sounds, but Steven takes them into his mouth _easily_ , as if his tongue is something molten, easily changed.

"Like you," Loki says. "Fair-haired, with blue eyes, light-skinned. The Ljósálfr and the Dökkálfr are each semi-ethereal, full to the brim with magic. When I was young, and I entertained fantasies of not being Aesir, I was convinced I must be a Dökkálf."

"The Dökkálfr," Steven repeats. "If the Ljósálfr are Light Elves, they're Dark Elves, right? You haven't mentioned them before." Loki nods. Ever-learning is he. Ever-curious.

"Long ago, Asgard warred with Svartalheim. The world now is but a barren wasteland, every mile of earth turned over as a battleground," Loki murmurs. "The Dökkálfr are all gone." Steve takes in an inhalation.

"That's… I didn't realise… How many people were there, when he—"

"Millions," Loki murmurs, and he runs his hand through his hair, sighing. "I've been there. Walked its cold, barren ground. He turned their sun in upon itself after the war was over, and now it's just a black hole with a ring of light around its edge: from there comes the only light left to Svartalheim."

"That's horrible," Steve mutters. "Did they look like the Ljósálfr?" Loki shakes his head.

"No. Dökkálfr were mostly dark-skinned, very dark-skinned. Like Heimdall, but without such rich colouring – it was a colder black, with a different undertone. There was a noble caste among them, however, that was albino, with pale eyebrows and pale hair, and there were a handful of white-skinned Dökkálfr with black hair. There's an old Ljósálf song about dark-skinned Ljósálfr and light-skinned Dökkálfr, a drinking song… But I've never met a dark-skinned Ljósálf that wasn't of mixed blood. They don't even tan." It feels strange, to explain these basic things to an outsider, particularly in the USA – Americans constantly talk about racism, about prejudice… Loki has only ever known it as fact. Inalienable. Unexamined. _Truth_. "But they are beautiful, the Ljósálfr. They have hair like spun gold, and when they _sing_ , when they speak, even… It thrums with untold magic. It is simultaneously of this realm and another. And like the Jötnar, their view of gender is flexible. Although they have a roughly similar concept of binary sex, gender is viewed as something fluid. Men lie with men; women lie with women. And the Ljósálfr, despite their lofty class, they don't worry about interbreeding. The Æsir frown upon mixed blood, but the Ljósálfr welcome anyone with a song in their hearts."

"What's the catch?" Steve asks quietly. Loki arches an eyebrow in question, and Steven murmurs, "Just… Asgard seems like it's all golden, but you look closer and there's sexism, homophobia, racism. What's the catch with Alfheim?"

"The culture is centred much more on money than Asgard. Poverty is a very real concern on Alfheim, unlike on Asgard or in Vanaheim, particularly for young children or elders. And the Ljósálfr hate to fight for sport, but their honour is easily offended. The Ljósálfr, once spurned, hold a grudge for a lifetime. It was a Ljósálf that murdered mine and Sigyn's children." He thinks of Narfi on his back in the snow, his blood spattered on the ground, and he thinks of Valí on the ground, skinless in a pool of blood, partway between wolf and Æsir. "Anyway. Everyone was drunk, and I didn't want to be around any of them, least of all Thor. So I left the tavern they were in, and I went to another. It was… I didn't realise what it was, initially."

Steven tilts his head, looking at him curiously.

"It was… A brothel." Steven's lips quirk up into an easy grin, and Loki turns his head, shaking his head slowly. "I'd never had… To the Ljósálf, my appearance is beautiful, exotic. It is different. And they delight in bare chins as much as they do in beards. A good half-dozen women flocked about me as I simply tried to drink a glass of wine, and I was young, naïve— I didn't realise what they were. One of them asked me how many women I thought I could satisfy in one night. I said that I don't really do that sort of thing." Steven laughs, putting his hand up over his mouth, and Loki cannot help the smile that comes to his own face at his own youthful foolishness. "But they couldn't… The Ljósálfr are a very sexually free people. The idea of a young, unmarried gentleman being a virgin was unimaginable for them. So they brought me a man."

Loki laughs, quietly. "He was older than the women were. Seasoned, with the beginnings of silver in his hair golden hair. They said he would take good care of me, and he just _lifted_ me off the ground, carried me up the stairs… I was a little tipsy at this point, and I was so astonished I couldn't use my tongue. He was very handsome. Really, I've always— I've always appreciated older men, but he was otherworldly. He had the bearing of a priest, and the tongue of a diplomat. He knew _immediately_ that I had made an error, that I didn't realise what I had walked into, and he was very kind about it – he carried me to a private room to hide my embarrassment."

"What was his name?"

"Yrjö." Loki thinks of his long, golden hair with its patches of silver, the careful braids of it, the short-cropped beard… "He gave me a massage, and while I was still loose and pliant, he worked me open, left me dripping before he finally slipped inside me. I felt like I would burst, but I learned later he wasn't _especially_ big. I was merely innocent of sex."

"Did he make you pay?" Steven asks.

"No, he didn't _make_ me," Loki murmurs. "He was quite adamant that he should rather like to enjoy my body whether I paid or not, but I left money for the sake of appearances. Fandral was delighted when he saw me walk out of the brothel the next morning. He was boasting of my virility to everybody he met."

"That's the blond guy, right? With the—" Steve waves his hand over his mouth, making a slightly disgusted expression, and Loki chuckles.

"Yes." Steve hesitates, for a long moment. "You want to know what we are to one another." Steve nods. "I thought he always… We were loose friends, in my youth. Volstagg and Fandral, even Hogun, all liked me in their own ways, I think, but I saw _them_ as friends of Thor, not of myself. And Fandral especially, I… I always thought he considered me sport. A game. Often he would mount some playful seduction of me, or whisper poetry in my ear, or try to entice me into kissing him. I always thought it was just a joke he enjoyed, flustering me, unsettling me. As time went on, after he married and his wife died, after I had been married once and then again… I trusted him a little more. He was the only one of Thor's friends to ever think me worth something. I didn't realise that we might have… I reciprocated his desires, many years ago, but that was many years ago. Before I came to Midgard. Before I met you."

"He kinda seemed like he still had a flame burning," Steve murmurs. Loki doesn't think he imagines the hint of jealousy tainting the younger man's words, and Loki smiles, reaching out and gently cupping the side of Steve's cheek.

"In another life, perhaps our flames could burn together," Loki whispers softly. "But in this life? I am made of ice, and I want for someone like me." His hand lowers slightly, feeling the steady beat of Steven's heart beneath his skin – so _fast_ …

"You think I'm like you, huh?" Steven asks, but he doesn't seem offended in the least. His own hand reaches out, touching against the centre-left of Loki's chest, and then he frowns, moving his head to the right, downward— Until his hand rests over Loki's heart.

"I really do," Loki murmurs. Steven slips forward, drawing Loki into a slow, easy kiss, and Loki feels himself melt into the warm mouth that thrums hot against his own, his tongue sliding against Steven's, their lips making quiet, wet sounds in the silence of the room. "Ravishment," Loki reminds him. "Now."

Steve chuckles, and his fingers slide down, playing over Loki's cock, and _squeezing_ around it. Loki groans against Steven's lips, and as Steven's hand tightens about him, Loki reaches for Steven's own length, deepening their kiss once more. "I'd love you to," Steve mumbles as two fingers slip inside him, and Loki grinds down against the heat of his fingers. "You should, uh, you could… Take me. Sometime."

Heat burns inside Loki's belly, and he bites down on Steven's lower lip, tugging at the sensitive flesh. "I should rather enjoy that," Loki admits. "The benefit of a shapeshifter, of course—" Loki delights in the way Steven _gasps_ and pulls back, staring at Loki's length as it shifts in his hand, becoming thicker, longer. He mirrors Steven's own, quite _substantial_ size, and Steven grips tightly at him, feeling the _heft_.

"God, I wish you'd told me this earlier," Steven mutters. "Is there any limit to what you can turn into?"

"Not really," Loki murmurs. "I'm a natural shapeshifter."

"You're a natural everything," Steve says, twisting his hand, and Loki hisses. "I'm gonna… Yeah." Steven reaches for a bottle of lubricant on the table, slicking Loki's cock and then his two fingers, pressing them between his own legs, slipping them inside himself— Loki bites his lip as he sees Steven _choke_ , his breath hitching in his throat, and scissor his own fingers. His other hand maintains a steady rhythm as it tightens around Loki's cock, and this—

"How long since you've done this?" Loki asks in a whisper.

"Seventy years," Steve mutters. "Give or take." He groans as he slides a third finger in, and Loki catches the groan before it finishes, swallowing it into his own throat before leaning down, dragging his teeth over Steve's neck. He can taste Steve's sweat, a layer of saline on his skin, and his mind wanders, just for a moment, back to the Great Bitter Lake—

And then Steve is straddling his cock.

"I made it this big for the sake of hyperbole, you know," Loki murmurs, his hands slipping to Steve's hips. "You needn't—" Steve begins to slide himself slowly down, letting Loki's cock sink slowly inside him, and Loki watches it greedily, watches inch after inch slide into the other man, feels the tight, wet _clench_ of his serum-enhanced muscle… Steve stops around halfway down, breathing heavily, and his hands press against Loki's belly, where his second ribcage leaves the flesh beneath hard and unyielding. Loki arches his eyebrows. "Giving up so soon?" Sweat beads on Steven's forehead, his pink lips parted, and there is a heady flush in his cheeks. He looks beautiful like this, absolutely _beautiful_.

Loki feels the instinct deep within his belly to tear the other man to pieces, to bring him to _ruination_. And wouldn't Steven beg for it? Isn't that what he wants, so desperately, to have the control wrenched from his strong shoulders and devoured before him? "Cuffs," he says.

"What?" Loki asks.

"Cuffs. Cuff your hands. Cuff 'em to the headboard." Loki digs his fingernails into Steve's hips, forcing him down another half an inch, and his heart _soars_ at the way Steve's back arches, his own hard cock pearling white at the head. " _Now_."

"You can't order me to do anything anymore."

"Sure I can," Steven replies, breathlessly. "You just get to choose to obey." Loki feels the wolf snarl within him, the teeth snapping, feels the indignation and _rage_ at some weak little Midgardian daring, _daring_ , to offer him a command. And yet slowly, he reaches his own hands up toward the headboard, and feels his own seiðr _clink_ as two cuffs keep him in place. There's a rush in his veins, and judging by Steve's expression, wide-eyed and slightly surprised, he's feeling precisely the same. "Great."

"Don't I get a reward?" Loki asks, breathlessly. Steven hesitates, and then begins to work himself back down, his palms flat against Loki's belly to give him purchase, and Loki closes his eyes tightly, unable _not_ to drag at the wood of Steve's headboard, making it creak slightly. Steven's body is _impossibly_ hot around his own, as tight as a vice, and Loki grunts as a droplet of Steven's sweat lands against his belly, sliding smooth and hot over his own, dry skin.

"Do you feel this? Like you would with your own—" Loki gives a short thrust of his hips despite the awkwardness of the position, and Steve groans low in his throat, cutting himself off.

"It _is_ my own," Loki says, lowly. "My magic is an extension of me – I feel everything." Steve drops himself down in one smooth motion, and Loki chokes on air, feeling the heat _envelope_ him, feels his own cunt empty and _sopping_ , and best of all he feels the greedy clench of Steven's muscle around the base of his cock.

"Everything?" Steven repeats breathily. "Really?"

"Really, Steven." Steve doesn't draw himself up, but instead grinds his hips slowly down, taking up an easy rhythm that keeps Loki inside him the _whole_ time, his inner walls shifting around the length of Loki's length, and it is _primordial_. Loki could stay right here, with Captain America impaled upon him, from here until the end of time.

"Let's see what it takes," Steven whispers. "See if I can't get you down to _Steve_. Like the first time."

"Steve," Loki murmurs. "Already the lines blur in my own head." Steve laughs, and it makes him tremble and vibrate around Loki, the sensation impossible not to enjoy.

"Do you— Do you like being called Loki?"

"I _am_ Loki," he replies. Steve tilts his head, evidently not understanding – that is alright. He doesn't need to. "I'll call you Steve if you wish."

"I like Steven," Steve admits. The red flush is spread over his naked chest and his cheeks alike, his skin _glistening_ in the morning light. "It feels… I don't know. Having something you call me that nobody else does. It's like a mark that isn't a mark. But Steve is good too."

"Steve," Loki whispers, pouring his most _sultry_ tone into his voice. "Please… Fuck yourself on me." Steve's throat _bobs_ as he swallows, and he slowly works his thighs, drawing himself up until Loki's head is just _barely_ inside him, and then he slams himself down again, setting up a pace that must be truly punishing on his thighs, but Loki is hardly about to stop him. It's glorious, to go from cool to _all-encompassing_ heat, and he watches with delight as Steve's right hand goes to his cock, squeezing the shaft of it, thumbing over the head. "I feel like a toy," Loki murmurs. "Just a tool for you to use." Steve groans, his grip faltering around his cock, and Loki chuckles softly. "You like that, hmm?

Steve grinds himself down a little harder, his hand speeding on his cock, and Loki cannot help but grin, show his teeth. "Is this what you've desired from the beginning, I wonder? Ever since you saw me on my knees, my head bowed—" Steve's face _crumples_ , and Loki groans at the erratic tense and relaxation of his muscles, feels the hot spatter of Steve's spend against his belly and over Steve's own hand. "So _quick_. Why, _Captain_ , I expected more st— _ungh_ —"

Steve has to lean back to do it, but there are two fingers buried in Loki's cunt, and Loki bites down hard on his own lip to keep from _yelling_. Loki's orgasm comes swiftly, and he feels his cock jolt and judder inside the other man, feels Steve's walls wash with Loki's spend… Steve drops forward, carefully extricating himself from Loki's length, and he blankets Loki's body with his own, settling his face against the crook of Loki's neck. His body is _damp_ with sweat, and yet Loki finds he rather loves the scent of him like this, salt and the natural musk of his body mingling with the shampoo in his hair.

"Forgetting something?" Loki murmurs against said blond locks, and Steve laughs against his neck – it tickles.

"Take the cuffs off." Loki's hands move immediately to the muscle and fat of Steve's backside, smacking hard against the flesh, and Steve groans, biting at Loki's neck as punishment. Loki cannot help the way he arches into the heat of the other man's mouth— And he feels Steve freeze.

Panic blooms inside him. "Apologies, I didn't—"

"No, it's okay… Would you, would you want me to? Bite down? Hard?"

"It's just instinct," Loki mutters. "Disregard it."

"Instinct?" Steve repeats, and he leans back slightly, so that he can catch Loki's eye. "Jötunn instinct?"

"I'm not just Jötunn," Loki murmurs. "You saw my children. I bore Fenrisúlfr and Jormungandr both – I am a wolf, a snake, both." He sees the confused tilt of Steve's head, sees his tongue touch against the back of his teeth as he thinks, as he tries to see things as Loki sees them. It's… _Profoundly_ flattering. "You don't have to understand, Steven."

"I know," Steve murmurs. "But I want to." Loki smiles, dropping his head back on the pillow.

He is about to start another sentence when Steve bites down _hard_ on the juncture between Loki's neck and Loki's shoulder, and Loki moans at the desperate pain of it, the way Steve's tongue drags over the blood he has drawn, and _oh no_ —

Steve leans back, hissing in pain, and Loki hurriedly reaches out with his seiðr, soothing the acid sting away from Steve's lips and tongue. "I forgot," Loki says, peering into Steve's mouth to ensure he's fixed the damage. "My apologies."

"It's fine," Steve mutters, laughing. "I didn't— It's _acidic_?"

"My saliva is, as well," Loki admits, softly. "Naturally. But I rather enjoy kissing you. I didn't think to put a childproof lock on my _blood_."

"You just _asked_ me to bite you—"

"But I didn't think you were going to!" Loki reaches up, feeling the marks at his neck – Steve had bitten deeply, bypassing the thick flesh with _ease_ , and he feels the individual squares of the other man's teeth indented in the wound. Loki holds up his right hand, and he shows it to Steve, shows the bite marks torn against his palm and the back of his hand, where distinctly _inhuman_ teeth had dug right in.

"Who did that?"

"Fenrisúlfr," Loki murmurs softly. "He was playing in the waters, running amongst the fish. It was nearly nightfall, and Jormungandr and Hel were already inside, but he stubbornly insisted he would not come inside yet. He was the oldest, he said, and he deserved to play for longer in the waves. I went to grasp him by the scruff of the neck, and he _bit_ me."

"You let it scar?" Steve asks, and he traces the savage mark of raised and dappled, blue-tinged skin under his thumb.

"I was too proud not to," Loki murmurs. "He threw me nearly twenty feet." Steve looks to the mark on his shoulder. "I won't let it scar." Steve's relief shows plain on his face, and Loki smiles. "I just wanted to show you it's… Positive. It isn't destructive, it isn't harmful. Wounds are what you make of them."

"Okay," Steve murmurs after a second of uncertain hesitation, and he catches Loki in a kiss.

 **July 28th, 2012  
8:42AM**

They eat breakfast at the Jewish deli around the corner from Steve's apartment building. Loki is pensive as he picks at his organic salad, his eyes far away, and Steve wipes his mouth with his napkin, putting his sandwich aside for a second. "You thinking about the kids?" he asks, softly.

"The kids," Loki repeats, softly. A slight smile tugs at his distracted lips. "No, no. I'm thinking…" He trails off, and his eyes become even more distant. "Asgard. I keep thinking of Jötunheimr. I was left at the temple, on a hillside, to die, and Odin, he… He took me up when he took the Casket of Ancient Winters, a sacred object to the Jötnar. I was undersized for a Jötunn, heavily undersized… But I can't have been."

"What do you mean?" Steve asks. His eyes flit down, and he sees the silk white scarf around Loki's neck, hiding the livid mark Steve had left from blue. It had been _purple_ where his teeth had broken the skin, so obviously made by human teeth, and Steve's skin feels hot just thinking about it.

"I was shapeshifting before I was out of my swaddling clothes," Loki murmurs. "My shape likely changed in the _womb,_ this way and that... Jormungandr was like that." Loki's hand goes to his own belly, and his eyes come back into focus as he looks at Steve. "I can't help but feel I'm missing something. A prince of the Jötnar, left to die in the cold, but—"

"Would you have died?" Steve asks. Loki blinks at him. "Well, no, I just mean… You said the Jötnar don't really wear clothes. You thrive in that cold, right? Would you have died of exposure?"

"I don't know," Loki admits. "He said I didn't know everything. That there were things I was missing."

"Odin?" Loki nods. His expression is quietly serious as he takes up his juice, taking a small sip of it. It's brightly green, and it looks and smells _awful_ , but Loki seems to enjoy it.

"He speaks rashly when he feels he's been backed into a corner," Loki murmurs. "I'm much the same. He said, before he sent me here—" Loki stops. His lip twists, and he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Tell me," Steve murmurs. Loki looks deeply conflicted, and finally he shakes his head again.

"Another time," Loki says softly. "I can be free of Asgard, and my future… But my past remains set in stone. And yet there are things therein which I feel are something of a mystery to me, even now. Tangled strings I have yet to unknot. Before I fell from the Bifrost… I was so desperate to prove myself. So desperate to prove I was not the monster my new skin proved me to be, so _desperate_ not to be a Jötunn. Odin so easily allowed my wife to be murdered for her icy flesh, and I've seen Thor tear into thirty Jötnar simply for the crime of _being_ , I was so frightened, and angry…" Loki sighs, setting his elbows against the table, and he sets his hands over his face, hiding his face. "I led their king, Laufey, to the chamber where Odin lay comatose, ostensibly to assassinate him as he slept. I planned to kill him before he could do it, but he— He turned on me, realised what I was doing. And Odin stood from his coma just in time, and ran Laufey through. He _saved_ me, but it was all my fault in the first place."

Steve watches Loki as he draws his hands slowly away from his face, and he watches the anxiety, the grief, the guilt, bleed slowly away, replaced by thin lips, furrowed brow, deep eyes – Steve knows _that_ look. Determination. "What are you gonna do?"

"Bide my time, for now. And then— I suppose I shall have to visit Jötunheimr. Seek what answers I might find."

"You're not scared you might find something you don't like?" Steve asks, trying to keep his tone diplomatic: Loki laughs without humour.

"Oh, yes," Loki murmurs. "Absolutely terrified. But if I've learned anything, it's that if something scares me, it's better for everyone that I face it head on." _Better for everyone_. God. Steve reaches out, and he touches Loki's hand.

"Better for everyone includes you, right?" Loki doesn't answer the question. Instead, he interlinks their fingers, and Steve feels himself panic for a moment, because someone will see, someone will spit at them, beat them up—

No one does. It's 2012, in a Jewish deli in Brooklyn. It's _fine_.

"It's just instinct," Loki murmurs, comfortingly. His eyes are full of understanding, and Steve sighs.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just instinct."

They eat their breakfast in comfortable silence. It feels… Normal. A new version of normal, but a normal nonetheless. Loki going to Jötunheimr, if it's what he needs, it's what Steve will push him to do. What must it feel like, to realise you're what you were raised to hate? What you know your family hate?

Steve squeezes Loki's hand. Surprised, Loki smiles at him, and Steve feels himself relax – marginally – in his seat.


	24. The Chains We Break 2

**July 28th, 2012  
03:14PM**

"Carpet or wood-flooring?" Loki asks quietly. Steve frowns, glancing at the bedroom as it stands. Loki had blown the thing up in size, and he had painted the walls a creamy white, setting one wall with a huge window enchantment, just like his bedroom in Avengers Tower. Afternoon light streams in from the city outside, and it's pleasantly warm, but not _too_ hot. The benefits of living in a pocket dimension being that you control stuff like airflow and temperature, according to Loki.

"Wood," Steve decides. "Dark wood." The two of them are stood upon the air, around a foot off the ground that isn't there: where the floor should be there is an eerie nothingness, expanding black in every direction. Loki sets his hands out, and Steve watches with delighted awe as walnut boards begin to sprout from the bases of the walls, spreading out over the expanse of floor and locking into place against each other. It looks as natural as if there have _always_ been wood boards on this floor instead of down-trodden carpet, and Loki delicately steps down onto the ground, offering Steve his hand so that he can do the same.

It's easy. Surprisingly easy.

Steve had kind of expected to just leave Loki to it and let him change everything, but he hasn't. They decorate the bedroom: a wide bed, bookshelves, two armchairs, two standing wardrobes and a chest at the end of the bed. Steve takes a break to piss, and when he comes back Loki has fashioned the bedsheets after the stars and stripes, and Steve has to wrestle him before he'll make them into something _normal_. Three cushions remain as accents – one that looks like his shield, and two silver stars.

The living room remains small, but with less furniture in it. Loki replaces the old heater with a fireplace, and Steve is surprised by how normal he makes it look. The kitchen triples in size, no longer a hole in the wall, but now a beautiful thing of shining chrome with six burners on the stove, and with a damned _dining_ table in the middle of the floor. The bathroom is as expected – Loki adds a bath. A massive bath. But Steve didn't expect anything different.

"Offices," Loki murmurs quietly.

"Offices?"

"We each should have a space of our own, no?"

"You can do that?" Steve asks. "Just… Add two whole rooms?" Loki nods.

Steve's office has two floors, one raised four feet away from the other. His desk is against the window on the raised platform, with bookshelves on either wall, and the lower part has a wide sofa, two chairs, a coffee table. It's… Comfortable. Homey. Steve leans against the desk, and he watches as Loki sets frames against the wall. They're framed in shining silver, accenting against the dark leather of the couch, and he sets up twelve of them. "They're empty," Seve murmurs.

"For now," Loki agrees. "Nick Fury is here." The doorbell rings a second after he finishes the sentence.

"You're such a show-off," Steve mutters, taking the steps down from the platform.

"Oh, build a whole apartment from scratch, he's not impressed," Loki says dramatically to some invisible audience. "Notice a six-foot man in black leathers standing outside the door to said apartment, and I'm a savant!" Steve laughs despite himself, and he moves past Loki into the corridor, moving to let Fury in. Behind him, he hears Loki slip into the other room – the one he'd set aside as _his_ office.

"Hey," Steve says. Fury's eye slowly moves from Steve to the corridor behind him, and Steve offers him a warm, friendly smile. In the pit of his stomach, there's a twist of irritation, and he says, "This about the bugs?"

"Bugs?" Fury repeats innocently. Innocence doesn't suit him. "What bugs?"

"They're on our kitchen table. Loki took them all apart," Steve says mildly, and he stands back to let the other man in. It's funny. On some level, Steve had been aware the apartment was probably bugged, that there was probably some kind of surveillance installed – SHIELD would easily say it was to keep Steve _safe_ as much as to keep an eye on him, and he's not angry, not really. He leads Fury into the kitchen, and he gestures to the dining table.

Loki had taken them apart piece by piece. They were hidden so well Steve would never have found them – one was in the thermostat (now unnecessary); three were in lamps, set inside the wires; one was in a groove of skirting board in his bedroom. Steve crosses his arms, leaning back against the marble counter against one side of the kitchen, and he doesn't miss the way Fury is glancing around the room, building a blueprint in his head.

"No one is gonna be able to come in the door without one of us letting them in," Steve says mildly. "Loki explained the magic, but it's, uh, kinda above my paygrade. Something about falling between dimensions, where no sun ever shines?"

"Gee, Steve, I'm almost offended," Fury murmurs. "You don't trust me?"

"I trust you," Steve says. "About as much as you trust me." Fury chuckles, and he moves further into the kitchen, glancing at the windows that don't make sense, where physics is concerned. There are three of them, and only one in the middle shows New York, a view that looks like it's been taken from the Statue of Liberty – the one on the left shows some view over Norway, and the third one shows the city of Asgard. It doesn't feel the same way a video feed does – it's almost like having three animated photographs.

"No hard feelings?"

"Nah. SHIELD's doing what they think is necessary. I get that." Fury slowly sinks onto one of the dining chairs, leaning forward. His hands clasp together, between his knees, and he looks up at Steve, thoughtful. "He broke the connection," Steve murmurs.

"I heard," Fury says, slowly. "He did that pretty quick, huh?" Steve shrugs. "Where were you? You weren't on Earth, I know that."

"Asgard," Steve says quietly. "He… He wanted to, uh, legally lose his connection to Asgard. Basically. He went in front of the Council of Gods, and he asked to be discharged from service. That's the basic explanation."

"Why?" Fury asks.

"It meant that, um… His three kids were all locked up, because of some prophecy. And it meant the Council had to let them go." Something changes in Fury's eye. One of his hands goes up to his face, rubbing over the side of his mouth, and he sighs.

"They're not coming to Earth, right?" Steve shakes his head. "Damn. How long were they locked up?"

"I'm not sure exactly," Steve murmurs. "But I got the impression it was around a millennium." The two of them stay silent for a long few moments, and Steve says quietly, "He's, uh, he's not gonna be an Avenger any more. He wants to get a teaching job. But he… He'll do whatever I do."

"Captain America's a package deal now, huh?" Fury asks quietly. The question isn't just about working for SHIELD, Steve can tell, and he thinks about his answer for a long few moments before he gives it.

"I guess," he says. "Yeah."

"You don't think you're rushing things?"

"Maybe," Steve admits. "But I trust him. And I'll trust him so that you don't have to." Fury laughs, softly, bitterly, and Steve knows exactly what that laugh means – _It doesn't work like that, soldier_. But Fury says nothing. "You want a cup of coffee?" Fury glances up, surprise shining in his eye for just a second before it fades away.

"Sure," he says, and Steve puts some water onto the stove to heat.

 **July 28th, 2012  
05:31PM**

Loki's office is a frozen tundra. Steve stands in the doorway, where Loki had said for him to come in, and he stares out over the swirling, frosty winds, the snow, the ice.

And then, the tundra is gone in a blink: Loki's office is perfectly circular, with several metal platforms making up more floors above him. Bookshelves line every wall, gently curving with them, and the light comes from a skylight some floors above. Suspended from a length of fabric, Loki descends in the middle of it all, looking like a spider on a silken thread where he hangs upside down, his hair hanging around his head in a curtain of black.

"This isn't an office," Steve points out. "This is a library." Loki smiles, and he drops neatly to the tiled floor, gesturing to his left. Two bookshelves give way to an archway of similar wood, and through the arch, up half a dozen steps, is a desk and chair on a raised platform, just like Steve's. "This based on somewhere?"

"My old office on Koom," Loki says, glancing up toward the skylight, and when Steve steps closer, looking past the copper grating that makes up the other circular floors and to the segmented glass. It shows a lilac sky, with two crescent moons high above them. "I was very happy there, you know. When I saw Thor seated in the back of my lecture hall, listening with the rest of the students… He sat there amidst the lilac-skinned Koomians, dressed in his leathers, with Mjölnir in his lap, and he started calling out answers to the questions I was asking. This was complex, applied astrophysics – aeronautics… I had written a paper revolutionising the conservation of space fuel on Koom as part of my— the equivalent of a PhD. He'd read it cover to cover. He knew my work very well. But I looked at him, and all I felt was grief. Here he was, to drag me back to Asgard once again. Thor loves Asgard, Steven. For the longest time, he was blind to its faults, and couldn't conceive of why I was so unhappy there. My unhappiness, in his mind, was a choice I was making."

Sighing softly, Loki reaches out, drawing his palm over Steve's cheek. "I get the feeling, at times…" Loki trails off momentarily, his thumb brushing against Steve's cheek bone. "Your friend James. You were like brothers, weren't you?"

"Bucky," Steve murmurs. "I never called him James." Loki smiles softly. "Bucky could be like that sometimes, yeah. Overprotective. A little insensitive. But he was… He was a good man. Proud, and brave, and always standing beside me when I needed him." Loki's smile warms.

"Yes," he says. "What did Commander Fury say about the listening devices?"

"Well," Steve murmurs. "He didn't _apologize_." Loki laughs.

"I didn't expect him to." Sighing, Loki sits back upon the air, carefully crossing his legs over one another. It's thoughtlessly graceful, casual and easy, and Steve watches him for a long few moments. It'd be easy, to not trust him. It'd be easy to brush Loki off as a horrible guy who's done horrible things, but Steve… He's never been able to brush someone off as worthless, beyond saving. No matter what they've done. It's not fair, really. If Loki hadn't been shoved into his life, Steve, he would have just… What? Stayed isolated? Not kissed anyone for three years?

Maybe.

"You serious before?" Steve asks. "That you'd work for SHIELD, if I do?"

"Of course," Loki says, his hands in his lap. "Where you go, I'll go."

"Why?" Loki blinks. "You said you didn't like the fighting."

"I don't," Loki murmurs. "But better to fight off a foe than sit back and watch the weak perish. That's what you stand for, isn't it?" Steve hesitates, and then he nods his head. "I trust your judgement. More importantly, I trust myself to advise that judgement." Steve laughs, turning his head to the side.

"God, you are… _So_ annoying."

"Really? Annoying?"

" _Really_ annoying, that's right." Loki drags his thumb down the length of Steve's chin, and Steve feels the coldness of his calloused thumb, relaxing under the touch.

"There are worse things to be," he says mildly. "I'm going to make an application to lecture at NYU."

"In astrophysics?"

"Probably across a handful of subjects," Loki murmurs. "I'll need to translate my diplomas, of course."

"All fifteen of them?"

"Eighteen." Steve can't help the way he laughs, and he takes a step forward, putting his hands on Loki's hips, leaning in closer so that their noses are together, their lips nearly touching. Loki tilts his head slightly and leans in to kiss him, his tongue flicking over Steve's lower lip. It tickles.

"Travelling with you, around the Fon System… It was nice. I'd love to do that again some time." Loki looks uncertain for a few moments, his brows furrowing.

"Be careful what you wish for, Steven. That was little more than a holiday, a vacation, but… Travelling the stars like that is not natural for natives of this planet. It won't be for several more centuries. I wouldn't want to risk your health – humans are so fragile compared to most space-faring species."

"I'm not completely human anymore," Steve says, and he's surprised by what a relief it is to say it. He _isn't_. It's true. The serum has changed him, made him more than human, and while he isn't like the mutants, he isn't like the non-mutants either. Steve's in the category of _powered people_ , and that's— That's not so simple. "I know we're not the same. But when they made me Captain America… I became more than just Steve Rogers."

"I know," Loki murmurs. There's an expression of complete peace spreading across his features – peace, and amusement. "I've known that from the beginning – I've just been waiting for you to realise."

"There anything else you're waiting for me to figure out?" Steve asks, almost terrified of the answer. Loki's smile becomes private, and he turns his gaze down to Steve's shirt collar, reaching out to adjust the set of it against his neck, smoothing away some imaginary lint or dirt.

"It isn't a matter of waiting, exactly. When there is a gap between two individuals, as there is between us – in experience, in age… One must skirt the line between supporting the other's growth, and stifling it by attempting to wrest control for yourself, or by offering too much advice. One's grip upon another's choices can never be too strong. This knowledge of one's role is the strength of any truly good king, and any truly good lover." Steve looks at Loki for a long few moments, taking in the plane of his pale features, his shining eyes, his sharp nose, and he thinks of the way Loki had stood in Berlin, with the sceptre in his hands, that horned helmet on his head.

"Do you really believe that?" Loki nods. "Does Thor not… Know? That you believe that?"

"There are things even brothers don't speak of," Loki murmurs. "Thor never had any interest in philosophy, or ideology. He never wished to be bogged down by affairs of social politics. Now, I think… His sojourn upon Midgard last year put that in perspective for him. Ditto his alliance with you to capture me."

"What you said, before, the… The influence on you."

"Thanos," Loki says quietly. He doesn't flinch or shake, this time – the guy's name is just a name now. But Steve can't shake the uneasy feeling at the distant horror in Loki's eyes. "His name is Thanos, and his connection is broken to me now."

"No, I know, but—What you said about him, about Thanos. That he forced you to invade… Thor still doesn't really know that. He still thinks you invaded because you _wanted_ to."

"The truth will out, with time," Loki says simply. He doesn't seem too worried. "At the moment, I serve as a catalyst for Thor. He grows in my absence, ever stronger. We do better when we are apart, both of us, and he— I don't think he ever truly believed that, before. I don't mean to sound cold, but Thor has always held himself back for me, and I don't know that he ought have. Similarly, I have held myself back for him. Some day soon, I will tell him everything, but for now…"

"That doesn't sound cold," Steve murmurs. "Isn't it— But aren't you sacrificing yourself, really? To pretend you're worse than you are, so that _he_ can grow? How's that fair?"

"Thor has a destiny to fulfil. I do not," Loki says simply. "If I prevent him from getting stronger, I will suffer no consequences, but if he is not strong enough to play the role fate has laid out for him, he could die, or worse. There is a limit to what my powers can accomplish, Steven, and I don't wish to see my brother dead or dying just so that I can appear fine and rosy in his eyes."

"I don't get it," Steve mutters.

"You might never get it," Loki says sagely. "But there's nothing wrong with that." Steve pulls Loki closer, and he feels his gasp of surprise as Steve pulls their foreheads together, holding tightly to the hand that had been ghosting over his chin. It feels weird, to initiate this, especially because Loki's legs are awkwardly folded on the air in front of his chest, but Loki relaxes into it as if it was the right thing to do, so maybe it was. "Shall we order something in?"

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

 **July 29th, 2012  
06:21AM**

"It feels strange," Wanda murmurs quietly. Her palm is upon the air, and Loki can see the faintest threads of red energy coiling between her fingers as she plays upon the air. "This is built into another dimension?"

"A dimension I created," Loki confirms, and he pours her a glass of orange juice.

"You're a good cook," Pietro murmurs. Loki cannot help the way he smiles as the other man sets his fork aside, his plate completely empty.

"You want another?" Loki asks mildly. Behind him, another jug of omelette mix pours itself onto the hot pan, and the sound of sizzling egg meets the air. Pietro grins. "Don't look so excited. _That_ is for Steven." Wanda laughs as Pietro's face falls, and Loki turns, sprinkling some lardons and chives into the mix.

Stepping neatly from the room and wiping grease from his fingers with a piece of kitchen paper, he slips slowly into the bedroom. Steve is almost awake, sitting up in bed, and Loki murmurs, "Breakfast? I'm making omelettes. The Maximoff twins are here." Steve chuckles, and he wipes the sleep out of his eye, looking blearily at Loki.

"So much for keeping this on the down-low."

"They're very discreet," Loki murmurs.

"I know," Steve murmurs. Running a hand through his hair, he blinks himself awake. "I'll join you in a second." Nodding, Loki slips out into the corridor and back to the kitchen – just in time to draw his spatula under the omelette to fold it into an omelette, and then he settles it onto a plate at the table, a simple burst of magic keeping it warm. Wanda eats delicately, taking up small bites of the omelette, and Loki pours more of the mix onto the pan, dropping red and yellow peppers into the mix, as well as more chives, some mushrooms.

"What, no bacon?" Pietro asks.

"Testing me on the kashrut, are you?" Loki replies, and he hears Pietro's soft laughter. When he turns, he sees that Wanda is looking at her brother, a smile tugging at her own lips. Her hair is drawn back from her head with a red headband, and her deep brown skin shines golden in the morning light; Pietro's skin, a lighter, duskier brown, takes on a similarly warm tint. Loki folds the second omelette over, and he sets it down before Pietro before moving to make one for himself.

"Would you teach me?" Wanda asks. "How to do this?" Loki considers the question as he cracks eggs into a jug, doing it one-handed with an easy, comfortable grace. How many eggs has he broken in the course of his lifetime? Hundreds of thousands, undoubtedly. He recalls the uneasy burst of futures that had sprawled before his swimming vision when he had woken from the sleep the Ancient-Loki had thrown him into, the way countless futures would present themselves to him at once. Thank the Norns that had faded quickly.

"Of course," Loki says, whisking the eggs together with a dash of milk. "I would be glad to tutor you in anything you wish, Wanda. Always." He feels Steve's presence as he enters the room, sliding down into the seat beside Wanda.

"Good morning," Pietro purrs.

"Morning, Piet," Steve says mildly. "Wanda."

" _Piet_ ," Pietro repeats, disgusted. "I don't care for that at all."

"Young Thomas calls you Piet," Loki points out, folding some cabbage and grated carrot into his own omelette. There's a moment of tense silence, and then he hears Pietro exhale with good humour. "How is he?"

"Tommy?" Wanda asks. Loki nods. "He's fine. Billy's applying for universities, but Tommy isn't certain about it. He's never done well with school, I don't think."

"I would have been the same, were school an option," Pietro points out, and Loki glances at him as he turns his omelette over slightly. Pietro is on his feet, pouring a glass of juice for Steve, and the sight makes Loki's lip twitch; Steve looks very surprised. "The school system isn't made for children like him. Even were he an attendee of Xavier's institution, I feel he would struggle nonetheless." Turning on his heel, Loki sets his own omelette onto his plate, and he puts the frying pan aside, flicking off the burner upon the stove. "Just because he won't have a high school diploma doesn't mean he lacks skills. He understands mathematics at a very high level; he has a very good grasp of biology, physics and chemistry; he is a natural engineer." Pietro's hand touches gently against Wanda's red-clad shoulder, and Wanda nods slowly. She looks worried all the same. "You should join us for dinner on Friday, Loki. I'm sure Tommy would love to meet you."

"Billy would like to know you better too," Wanda murmurs, with a small nod of her head, and for a second, she hesitates, glancing at Steve. "Father…"

"It's okay," Steve murmurs. "You can invite him and not me."

"You and Erik Lehnsherr are acquainted?" Loki asks.

"We've never met, actually," Steve says. "But I believe in freedom more than peace. He believes in peace more than freedom."

"What an eloquent way of putting it," Pietro murmurs. He doesn't seem upset, however, and he gently sets his knife and fork down upon his plate. "You ought join us. He won't argue you any more than he will be."

"Probably less so," Wanda murmurs ruefully. "You don't have to, either of you. I understand that a family dinner would be… Strange. Particularly our family." Steve looks to Loki, as if asking permission, and Loki thinks for a moment before giving a small inclination of his head.

"I would be honoured," he murmurs.

"Me too," Steve says, his tone as genuine as it gets, and Wanda smiles. Pietro wipes his mouth with a napkin, and he leans back in his own seat. It will be curious, Loki thinks, to see he and Lehnsherr side-by-side – he's seen photographs of _Magneto_ , seen the similarities between the man and his son, but it will be different indeed in the flesh. Steve adds, "It'll be, uh, interesting to meet your sister. Lorna, right?"

"Lorna," Pietro confirms. "She has all of Father's temper and none of his grace."

"Pietro!" Wanda says, and Pietro lets out a bark of laughter.

"She'll like you," Pietro murmurs. "She likes people who have conviction, direction. Both of us have often lacked that quality – it means a lot to see someone so unwavering." That is almost a compliment. Loki glances from Pietro to Steve, simply to see how Steve will react. Steve furrows his brow as if he's almost confused, however, and then he gives a small nod of his head. "And Billy will be delighted. An _all-American_ hero at his dinner table, why, it's his dream."

"Now now," Loki murmurs, reaching over and patting Pietro's hand. "No anti-American sentiment at the breakfast table, no matter how justified." Pietro and Loki share a look, and then laugh together. Steve gives them a flat look. "Should I bring anything?"

"No," Wanda says, shaking her head. "Not if you don't want to."

"I'll make a dessert of some kind," Loki says. "Something parve?" Pietro nods his head.

"Parve?" Steve repeats. "What's that?"

"Kosher laws dictate that one cannot eat meat and dairy in the same sitting," Pietro murmurs. "If something is _parve_ , it means it is neither meat nor dairy. Eggs are a good example."

"Do all of you keep kosher?" Steve asks, and Wanda and Pietro shake their heads at the same time. They don't look alike, not really, but there is something in their twin mannerisms – both of them have royal bearings and natural, easy grace, measured ways of speaking…

"Just William and I," Pietro says. "And Father, but I think that's just masochism rather than faith."

"They're often the same thing, I find," Loki murmurs, taking a sip of his water.

"You talking to Xavier recently?" Pietro replies, snidely. Loki's lips twitch. He isn't someone who naturally tends to playing games, but chess with Pietro is always a delight, whether they are sat at opposite ends of the chess board or the breakfast table.

"Point taken," Loki murmurs, and he focuses on eating his omelette.

 **July 29th, 2012  
05:37PM**

Loki sits on the floor of his office, a book open in his lap. The book is slightly cold to the touch, and the paper is made of a carefully dried seaweed that grows on the ocean floor of the Jut Sea, its deep blue colouring bleached by the brightness of the Jötunheimr sun. Now, it is a pale white, and the script upon it is made up of circular patterns that cross over and intersect.

It is simply a throwaway stanza, mentioning the child of a knight of Jötunheimr some four or five thousand years ago, and yet Loki cannot help but be confused by it, cannot help but read over the six simple lines again and again and again.

A child at the edge of the temple, left out in the cold…

"Loki?"

"Oh, you're back," Loki murmurs, looking up from the book. Steve stands in the doorway, watching him – he'd been at Avengers Tower for much of the day, and Loki had settled rather comfortably into the solitude of the office. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Are you? You look kinda upset." Loki looks down at the page, and he reads the stanza aloud, translating it as he goes.

" _And lo did the child cease its whimpers  
For it lay in the lap of the gods,  
Kept cool by their whispering winds.  
Upon the hill at the edge of the temple,  
The infant slept its first night soundly,  
For it knew no one would dare disturb its slumber_." Steve frowns, looking at Loki with confusion on his face, his lips twisting.

"What happened to the baby?"

"It was the child of a noble person, a knight, many years ago. The child grew up to be the keeper of the libraries – a sort of priest of Jötunheimr."

"So the kid survived?"

"It's said so casually," Loki murmurs. "I only have a handful of Jötunn texts, but this line… It's written as if... As if there need be no explanation of why an infant might be laid upon the hillside – as if this is a normality, a tradition. Odin said it was my birthright to die, but if—"

"He said _what_?" Steve repeats, and he is so abruptly furious that Loki's head whips up from the page. Steve's lips are twisted into a snarl, and he _stares_ at Loki. "Is that what you wouldn't tell me earlier? That he— He _said_ that to you?"

"He was angry. I was being just as cruel at the time, and I—"

"No!" Steve interrupts, harshly. "No. No, I don't care what you said to him – I doubt it was as bad as that. We need to— I want to talk. Now." Slowly, Loki rises to his feet, taking the book to his chest and feeling its comforting cool against his belly – he cannot help the anxiety that makes itself known within him, tugging at his stomach and gut, but Steve shakes his head. "No, no, I'm not— _angry_ at you. I just need to ask… I want to talk about Odin."

Loki holds the book a little tighter. "Must we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Loki considers refusing. But— He finds he doesn't want to. If Steve wants to ask…

"Alright. Come, to the living room. We'll sit beside the fire."


	25. The Chains We Break 3

**July 29th, 2012  
06:03PM**

Loki is taking his time. Steve doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to back him into a corner, but he can see Loki's trembling hands as they set the cast iron pot over the fire, laying it on the old-fashioned spit. Then, he sinks very slowly into an armchair, and looks at Steve uncertainly, as if he isn't sure what Steve is going to say.

Steve isn't sure either.

"Can you—" He's aware of how harsh his tone is, how heavy his breathing is, and he takes a second to inhale, pressing his palm hard against his mouth. "Could you show me? The conversation that led to Odin saying that? I don't know if that's overstepping a boundary or not, I don't know… If it is, you can say."

"It isn't overstepping a boundary," Loki murmurs. "I don't mind sharing memories with you. But Steven, I can't… I don't understand—"

"Show me," Steve says quietly. Loki reaches out, his fingers brushing against Steve's temple, and Steve _feels_ the memory wash over him, just like it had when Loki showed him the Grandmaster a few months ago.

 _You are dizzy, and exhausted. It had taken great energy indeed not to panic at the gag Thor had laid over your mouth, and although your tingling lips are now free, chains clink heavily about your neck and your wrists, but you hold your head high, and you move with composure. You still feel **Him** like a purple haze at the edges of your mind, and you try to focus your expression onto Odin instead, focus on this monster instead of the other._

 _Your heart is pounding. Here, you are ready for death._

 _"Loki," Mother says – but she is not your mother, is she?_

 _"Hello, Mother," you say coldly. She must learn not to love you. She must be free of you, for once and for all. "Have I made you proud?" She recoils as if stung, looking at you with horror shining in her eyes, and you feel your twisted heart shatter._

 _"Please, don't make this worse." You suppress the violent urge to laugh, embittered at your situation and hers alike._

 _"Define worse," you say._

 _"Enough! I will speak to the prisoner alone!" Odin declares, and your gaze slides to the old man upon his throne. You are overwhelmed by the sickening hatred within you, heating your newly cold blood and driving you near-feral with rage, and you suppress the urge to spit upon the ground. No – he already thinks you a savage. Best not to prove him right._

 _"The prisoner?" you repeat, amusedly. "And yet, the last time we had one of these charming little tête-a-têtes, you were calling me your son. How the times change!" Odin looks at you with such disgust shining in his single eye – had he always looked at you like that? Have you simply been blind to it, all these years? You, the savage, the monster, the Frost Giant._

 _"You killed countless Midgardians," Odin says. "What have you to say for yourself?"_

 _"You killed my wife," you reply smoothly. "She was worth a million." It's even true. Anything to distract the man from the purple threads dug through Loki's mind, anything to keep him distracted and emotional. Odin's old lips draw back, displaying his teeth._

 _"Your wife," he repeats, "was nothing more—"_

 _"Than the same species as me!" You nearly scream, and you surge in your chains, but two Einherjar hold you back. "You let some paltry guards murder all that was dear to me, had my children fettered to the nine stars, and why!? So that I wouldn't discover that which you hid from me. My birthright."_

 _"Your birthright," Odin says damningly, "was to die."_

 _"I wish you'd let me." Odin stares at him. He doesn't recoil, but Loki sees the momentary slackening of his features – that has hurt him. Good. "I tried the first time to end this paltry little affair, but I yet lived. I suggest you swing the sword soon, Father, lest I live still."_

 _"Your mother petitioned that you be imprisoned," Odin says lowly. "Not executed."_

 _"She is not my mother," you whisper. "And I would rather die that spend one more day under the gaze of your ugly eye, caged or not."_

 _"No!" Thor yells, rushing into the room, and you feel your eyes clench tightly closed._

 _"Get out!" you snap, half-desperately. "This is no place for a child playing king—"_

 _"You can't kill him!"_

 _"And what is your suggestion, my son?" Odin says, archly. The last two words strike you like a dagger, and you glance to the sword of the Einherjar closest to you, wondering if you can slit your own throat even with your seiðr bound, but the Einherjar notices your wandering gaze and shoves you to your knees_.

"That's enough, I think," Loki says quietly. He is looking down at the floor instead of making eye contact with Steve, and Steve can see the _shame_ on his face, the shame and the humiliation, the desperation— Steve grabs at Loki's hand, holding it tightly.

"It's okay," he says. "It's not— Christ, Loki."

"I didn't recall, before I agreed… I was thinking of the conversation, not my train of thought at the time. I oughtn't have—"

"Loki," Steve whispers. He takes Loki's hand, and he presses it against his heart, where it is beating a little faster than he would like in his chest. God, it's never easy. "It's… I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at _him_. He shouldn't have said that to you. He was— Would he have done it?"

"Executed me?" Loki asks, breathlessly. His fingers press at the muscle of Steve's chest through the fabric of his shirt, and he swallows, hard. "I don't think so. He was eager for any excuse not to, despite his anger in the moment. He'd never have entertained Thor so rudely interrupting court proceedings otherwise. Steven, he… It's very complicated."

"He killed your wife," Steve says helplessly.

"No, he didn't," Loki whispers. "An Einherjar killed my wife. He saw a Jötunn in Jötunheimr, angry and drawing her blade, and he killed her. He didn't know she was my _wife_ – he couldn't possibly have conceived of the idea that I, a prince of Asgard, would lie with a creature he thought was a monster. And I ripped his heart from his chest as it still beat as punishment." Loki laughs, bitterly. "And what did that accomplish? Two more children left without a father, who grew up knowing the Asgardian prince killed their father for defeating a beast." He turns his face away, dragging his hand away from Steve's chest, and he wipes at his left eye, wiping away a tear that threatens to well up there. "Forgiveness does not come naturally to me. I am… Angry, and bitter, and I feel ever as if I am made of shattered edges. But do not tell me I should not forgive Odin, because I cannot do anything else."

Loki drops to his knees on the rug before the fire, and he takes the pot off the flames, stirring the dark contents before setting it back. The scent of bitter chocolate is beginning to permeate the room, rising easily on the warm air. "Odin allowed my children to be taken from me, and he fettered them across the Nine Realms. Odin sent the Einherjar to my marriage home, without warning. Odin, afterwards, said that it was my fault for choosing such a creature as my bride. But I can't—"

Loki stops for a long, long moment. "I'm so tired, Steven. I cannot bear to spend another day despising the man that raised me as his son. I cannot stand the rage inside me, ever snarling and snapping, ever forcing me from one extreme to another. I feel it shall consume me. And what will it change? Angrboða will still be dead. My children were lost to me for a thousand years, but now they are free. Hating Odin will not retroactively release them sooner."

"Forgiveness," Steve says softly. "It's about… Loki, forgiveness is one thing. Not holding a grudge. But someone has to want to _change_ to be forgiven." And Odin hasn't shown that he wants to change. Hell, didn't he _just_ try to refuse Loki, when he tried to free Hel, Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr?

"And how can he change, with me digging into him at every moment?" Loki asks, his tone just as soft as Steve's, his voice _pleading_. "How can he change, when I attack him every time he tries? You said, when I first tried to kiss you, that I couldn't consent, and I didn't understand what you meant. And I understand now, but that concept isn't universal. No one is born with that understanding. And no one is born knowing how to… How to love. How to communicate one's feelings. How to forgive. I am learning. So is he." Carefully, Steve drops down onto the rug beside Loki. He feels the soft fur beneath him, and he puts his hands very gently on the sides of Loki's neck, his thumbs touching the edges of his jaw.

"I don't want to see this guy hurt you any more than he has."

"I know," Loki murmurs. "But he's— He's my father, Steve. It doesn't matter how many times I deny it, he… He's my father. And I, stupidly or not… I believe he loves me. I think he's stupid, and foolish, and _cruel_ , but he loves me. And I don't think I could forgive _myself_ if I cut off all bond to him forever, and he…" Loki closes his eyes, and his hands touch over Steve's own. "Even the Asgardians that eat of Iðunn's fruit are not immortal, Steven. Me aside, all of us will die of old age in the end. And Odin's time is fading."

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, softly. "You aside? What, you'll live longer because you're Jötunn?"

"Worry not about it," Loki says, but his tone is a little too hurried.

"No, tell me. What does that mean?" Loki sighs.

"The way I use magic… It does more than offer me energy to perform acts of seiðr work, or to shapeshift. It is energy, in its purest, basest form, and it flows through me. It… It is very likely that I will far exceed the lifespan expected of me. That I will live for hundreds of thousands of years, if it comes to that." Steve stares at him, his mouth open. Steve worries, sometimes, about not ageing, about living to be two or three hundred instead of eighty, but… Hundreds of _thousands_ of years— "I try not to think about it. The thought has always rather unnerved me, and… And I was supposed to die within the next few hundred years."

"Does Thor know?" Steve asks in a whisper.

"Nobody knows," Loki mutters. "Amora and I… Amora is an enchantress, the greatest enchantress upon Asgard. We've discussed it once or twice, for we practice magic in much the same way, but I never felt it would affect me in a practical sense. The more one uses magic, the more it curses you. Nothing comes without a price. Nothing. Living that long…" Loki trails off. "It changes you. The Elders of the Universe, for example – do you have tales of them here, on Midgard?" Steve shakes his head. Loki moves to grasp the pot of hot chocolate from the fire, and he pours two mugs of the thick stuff, passing one of them to Steve.

"All I know is that the guy from before, the Grandmaster… He's an Elder, right?" Loki nods, and Steve glances down to his mug, bringing it slowly to his mouth and taking a sip.

It's bitter and slightly spicy, more like a brew of tea than cocoa, and the taste is a little strong for him. Loki drinks heavily from his mug, however, and relaxes marginally as he leans back with the mug in his hands. "The Elders are beings from the beginning few centuries of the universe. They're so full of magic that they're _saturated_ with it. They can snap their fingers and start new realities or end them, and each of them has a specialist interest, an _obsession_ , that they cannot live without. You see, the universe cannot let them have such awesome power and let it go unchecked – there needs to be some sort of balance in motion, and thus, each of them has their sphere of influence. I've met two. One, he's called Taneleer Tivan – the Collector. He collects everything – stamps and coins, costumes and weapons, but most of all, he collects living specimens. People. His museum of curiosities on Knowhere is…" Loki trails off, and his lip curls slightly in disgust: he buries it in the mug once more. "And the other. Ord Zyonz. The Gardener."

"The Gardener?" Loki nods. His disgust gives way to a fond smile, distant.

"He can take the most barren world and make it lush and green and beautiful. His knowledge of botany and horticulture is unparalleled… The thing that unites the Elders is that they are the last surviving members of their species, each of them long-since lost to the annals of time, but none of them is bogged down in melancholy. They are all so awesome in power that they are as gods to us as _we_ are to Midgardians. Every one of them is dangerous – even Ord, who is kindly at heart, struggles to understand the concerns of mere mortals, which is all the Æsir are to them." Steve reaches out, and he puts his hand on Loki's knee.

"I'm not gonna say you won't live that long," Steve murmurs. "'Cause that seems, uh, a little fatalistic. But, Loki, you can't just live your life in fear that it'll last too long."

"Nor can you," Loki responds.

"Touché." Steve bites his lip. "You always seem to know what everyone else is thinking. Doesn't it get exhausting? Predicting what everyone else is gonna do before they do it?"

"Unbearably so. But I don't really know how to stop." _I wish I did_ goes unsaid, but Steve hears it in Loki's voice nonetheless.

"I hate this," he admits, and he pours his hot chocolate into Loki's mug. Loki lets out a soft, sweet laugh, and he sets his own mug aside, shifting closer, his hands either side of Steve's thighs. "Oh, this, though," Steve murmurs. "This, I like."

"Don't I frighten you?" Loki asks. He whispers the question, as if he's hoping Steve won't hear it.

"No," Steve answers. "No, I don't think so. Why? Do you want to?"

"No." Loki glances down at Steve's chest, his expression quietly pensive. "But I feel there must be some cosmic catch to this arrangement."

"What do you mean?" Steve asks.

"Some people aren't destined to be happy," Loki murmurs quietly. "Every time I allow myself to sink into domesticity, it is snapped in one way or another, and I don't wish to see you hurt because of my folly in permitting this engagement." Steve feels something dark in his chest _burn_ with heat – a fierce, sudden desire for revenge, but revenge against who? The whole damn universe? Destiny itself?

"You don't have to worry about destiny anymore," Steve promises, and he sets his hand on Loki's chest. Very gently, Loki takes hold of his wrist and slides it to the right of his body, about a quarter of the way down his torso, and this, Steve realises, this is where Loki's heartbeat is most powerful. "That's where your heart is, huh?"

"Right there," Loki confirms softly. "I'm sure it seems so dull compared to yours."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, no stars, no stripes… My heart must be so plain compared to yours." Steve shoves him in the chest, and Loki falls back onto the rug, laughing.

"One more word out of that smart mouth—"

"And what? You'll put a flag in me?"

"I'll put more than that in you." Loki smiles, sprawled as he is on the ground, like he belongs there. Loki is looking at him with a quietly interested stare, and Steve thinks about how he'd first felt when he'd seen Loki's eyes, red-rimmed and heavily affected by the power of the Tesseract. He'd been uncertain, aware that this _god_ was unpredictable, erratic, full of chaos— He doesn't see that any more. Loki feels predictable, now, working within a set framework no one has ever bothered to unpack. _You ask uncommon questions_ , he'd said, but somebody's first time… Isn't that a question that always comes up in the end? Isn't that a normal curiosity, even for alien cultures? "You ever have questions you want to ask me?" he asks, softly.

"Some," Loki murmurs. He is slightly cautious, as if he is waiting for the hidden catch in Steve's question, but there is none. The silence hangs between them for a long few moments until Loki asks, "You seem like a very private man. I know now what I should ask and what I should not."

"You can ask," Steve says, _sotto voce_. "You can always— I'll never get angry at you for asking me a question. And that's not just about Earth stuff or explaining something. You can ask me about stuff, memories, stuff like that. I can't show you mine like you can show me yours, but I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me stuff and you can't ask me about anything." Loki lays his hands delicately upon his stomach, looking up at him.

"Tell me about Peggy," he says softly. It's like a punch to Steve's gut, and he doesn't know what his face looks like, but he sees Loki's eyes widen, sees him recoil and shift upon the rug. "Sorry," he mutters, and he takes up his mug of hot chocolate and hurries out of the room – he moves so fast Steve can't really stop him, and Steve remains kneeling on the rug beside the quietly crackling fire.

 _You said he could ask you anything_ , says the voice that sounds Erskine.

 _But not about her_ , Steve thinks back, helplessly.

 **July 30th, 2012  
10:36PM**

Loki stands with his hands in his pockets, and he stares up at the statue. He isn't visible to the security cameras upon the island, and even if he were, it would take some minutes for a ferry to come out to the island to apprehend. In the warm light of the lingering summer evening, the Statue of Liberty shines brightly green above him, and he stares up at the crown, the torch…

"You a tourist now?" Loki turns his head, and he looks at Anthony – Tony. Iron Man hovers some thirty feet above the ground, the propulsors in the boots of the red suit keeping him suspended, and Loki wonders if it was wrong of him to leave him so visible to any that might search for him.

"Mother of Exiles," Loki says. "Am I a tourist if she welcomes me thus?" Tony is silent. The face of the Iron Man is somewhat disconcerting, lacking as it is in all basic expression, but Loki takes gracefully onto the air to join him. Of course, Iron Man's expression does not change, but he sees the marginal shift in Stark's shoulders, the way he leans back marginally.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Loki says. "You?"

"I'm okay," Stark says. "Fighting crime, you know. No big deal."

"No big deal," Loki echoes.

"Jeeze, you look… Real down, Lo. You sure you should be on your own right now?"

"I did something—" Loki stops himself. "Best I give him space for now." Stupid of him. Truly, _truly_ stupid of him – Loki is a perceptive man, someone who understands that which others are sensitive to, who understands where he ought tread lightly, but he had been so _desperate_ , when Steve had said he could ask questions, and— He's read about Peggy Carter. Seen her work after Steve Rogers went into the ice, wished to understand _precisely_ what they were to one another, and he had been so _eager_ to know more…

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. You wanna go get ice cream on Ninth?"

"It's the middle of the night."

"So? It's July. Bet you're real hot." The heat is oppressive. As soon as Loki had left the apartment he had felt the way the cloying stick of the New York summer to his skin, and with no breeze to speak of, there is nothing to temper it.

"Alright," Loki says. Tony leads the way, and he seems to jolt when Loki flies beside him, using his seiðr to control his movement through the air – it is different indeed to Skywalking, which requires a lot more careful calculations of energy usage and gravity. Flight, in contrast, is easy. When they land in the street, Stark's suit folds neatly away from his body and disappears beneath his wine-coloured shirt and his dark trousers. People look at him, but most of all they look at Loki as he lands neatly upon the ground, with quiet awe and curiosity. Loki ties his hair into a tighter bun.

There are too many flavours of ice cream in the ice cream parlour, so many bright colours and overly alliterative labels that Loki looks at each of them and cannot quite pick one. He is almost grateful for the distraction when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and anxiety bursts in his chest as he realises who the message is from.

 **Steve Rogers, 10:53  
You still in New York?**

 **Loki, 10:53  
Yes. Getting ice cream with Anthony.**

 **Steve Rogers, 10:54  
Good. Just wanted to check you were okay. We don't have to talk about it when you come home, if you don't want. I'm sorry for going silent on you – I'm not angry. It just kinda took me by surprise. **

**Steve Rogers, 10:54  
Get me a raspberry ripple?**

 **Loki, 10:55  
I am a complete foreigner to this planet, and even I know nobody has taken that flavour of ice cream since 1952.**

 **Steve Rogers, 10:55  
Nonetheless.**

 **Loki, 10:56  
Roger that, Captain.**

Loki swallows, sliding his phone into his pocket once more, and he says quietly, "May I have a small tub of the Grapefruit Giggle, please?" The young lady behind the counter, a pale-skinned creature with a buzzcut and a ring through the fabric of her lip, gives a short nod of her head, and moves to reach for the ice cream scoop. "And a cornet with two scoops of the Raspberry Ripple," Loki adds softly. Tony doesn't permit him to pay for the two portions of ice cream himself (and nor does he ask about the second). Loki momentarily banishes the second ice cream to a pocket dimension somewhere in the vicinity of his own hip, keeping it cold and unmalting until he returns to Steve's apartment.

"You could get a bigger portion, you know," Tony murmurs. "Don't think it'd kill you to put on some weight."

"The Jötnar don't build fat deposits like humans do," Loki says, bringing the small, plastic spoon to the thick, creamy substance and tasting it bitter and sharp upon his tongue. "Besides, I had an omelette for breakfast, and I oughtn't eat too much dairy in the course of a day." Tony glances at him, a grin drawing at his features.

"You lactose intolerant? Seriously?"

"There are no farms on Jötunheimr," Loki says simply. "My people don't drink milk of any kind. Jötunn young are fed soft meats, even – it would make little sense were I to be entirely able to digest lactose of any kind." Loki takes a slow bite of his ice cream, and he recalls the fear and uncertainty he had felt when he had borne Fenrisúlfr within him, and his stubborn breast had offered no milk to feed his new child. How it had frightened him at the time, how terrible a mother had felt, and without the means to study the process of lactation, without the means to replicate its process with shapeshifting alone…

"What's going on in that head of yours, huh?" Tony asks softly, and he gestures for Loki to sit down on a bench with him. Loki does, sliding to seat himself on the cool wood. "I heard from Nat that you, uh, that you got your kids back."

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "Fenrisúlfr and Jormungandr are now settled upon a planet I know well in the Gaian System, and Hel is on Fenix IV. I am very glad to see them free."

"I always wanted to be a dad," Tony murmurs. "Sometimes, I wake up, and I think about me and Pepper just… Settling down, you know. Hanging up the suit. Having a few kids run around." Loki watches him for a long few moments as Tony carefully licks a stripe around his chocolate cone, preventing its contents from dripping down over his fingers. "What's it like?"

"It's everything," Loki whispers. "You wake up one morning with this… Tiny little thing in your arms. And you know that your heart is broken already, for half of it lies now outside your chest, its beat faster than your own. When I looked upon my very first son, the feeling was indescribable. The pride I felt, the surprise that so beautiful a creature could have come from _me_ —" He thinks of Sleipnir with his eight clumsy legs, whinnying softly as he tried and failed to stand. Loki recalls himself exhausted and seiðr-weak, gently washing away blood and tissue from his new foal's soft skin. He recalls the sensation of Sleipnir's new muscle, his soft skin, even now, remembers even the _scent_ of him—

"I'm sorry," Tony is saying, and he presses a napkin into Loki's hand. Loki realises his eyes are watering, and he takes it, dabbing at his eyes. He cries so much, as of late, at scarcely anything – it is weak of him, weak indeed. He ought have more control than this. "I didn't mean to upset you. Your first son, that's… That's uh, Fenris, right?"

"Fenrisúlfr," Loki says. "No, he was my second. Sleipnir was my first." Tony's expression freezes for a second.

"Sleipnir, the uh, the horse?"

"Yes," Loki answers. "Fenrisúlfr the wolf."

"Like," Tony hesitates. "Like, literally? Horse and wolf?"

"Of course."

"God," Tony says, turning his head to the side for a second. Loki expects him to laugh, to offer some mocking joke perhaps, but neither comes. Instead, Tony runs a hand through his dark hair, and he shakes his head. "It's hard, you know, to… To grasp how different you are. The universe must be so weird from your perspective. People, animals. Gods, men. For you, all of them blend together."

"Yes," Loki agrees. "Of course, there is a separate category."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"The Hulk." Loki smiles thinly, and Tony laughs at his joke, leaning back against the bench and looking entirely at home there. The bustle of the city is something Loki can appreciate on many levels, but he is aware that he doesn't belong here in the way that others do: Tony is one of those easy souls that New York seems to open its very soul to, leaving him at ease regardless of where in the city he lands. Loki takes another small bite of his ice cream, and he thinks of Sleipnir, stabled upon Asgard even now. "Thor doesn't know, you know."

"Know what?"

"That Sleipnir is mine. You know the tale, I assume?"

"I've heard versions," Tony admits. "The big stallion, uh, Svad?"

"Svaðilfari." Loki has no more appetite for his ice cream, and he sets it neatly onto the wooden planks of the bench beside him. "My father kept the truth hidden from everyone in Asgard, except for himself and Heimdall. I was already often mocked and made a game of amidst the Asgardians, and already it was plain to all that I did not belong in Asgard. I wasn't merely the second son, I was… The people of Asgard hated me. So viscerally, at times, I don't think… I was only a boy. I didn't understand it at the time, didn't understand what I could possibly do to fix how they saw me, couldn't conceive of how to make them love me. But it wasn't truly about my choices, or what I wanted to do. I was foreign, visibly so, even if no one suspected my true heritage. It wasn't my fault, but at the time I felt that surely, _surely_ if I could be less ergi, I might win the people's favour. You know what it is like, I think, to fall upon the sword of public opinion." Tony is looking at him with that uncertain, quietly caring look in his eyes, but Loki finds his mind wandering. He thinks of Steve's words about Thor, thinks of all that Thor does not know…

"My dad wasn't a great dad," Tony murmurs. "He… I don't mean to beat on him. He was friends with Steve, you know, back in the day, but— He wasn't a good dad. And I always kinda struggled, I guess, with the fact that I hated him and I loved him at the same time. Sound familiar?"

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "A parent needs to be more than loving to be good, Anthony." After a moment's hesitation, he allows his hand to alight on the other man's shoulder. "You will be an admirable father."

"You don't know that."

"I do," Loki replies. "I'm a patron of parents on many planets. Young mothers especially, but parents in general. I know." Something small and subtle changes in Tony's face, the slightest blossom of relief, and Loki smiles. "I must return. Thank you, for the ice cream."

"Thanks for the talk, big guy," Tony replies. Loki allows the universe itself to shift around him, feels the dimensional transitway drag him along like a train upon a track, and he settles in the corridor of Steve's apartment, holding the ice cream in his hand. He knocks quietly on the door of the bedroom, and he steps inside.

Steve is sat on the edge of the bed, a sketchpad in his hands. Loki sees the smooth, artful strokes of the pencil upon the cream of the paper, sees his own hard features wrought in graphite before Steve hurriedly turns the page over and sets the book aside.

Loki hands him the ice cream, and Steve smiles, looking at it.

"Thanks," he murmurs. Loki sinks slowly onto the edge of the bed beside him, and he stares down at his own palms. He allows his scars to slide into place, and he looks at the marks of battle upon his fingers and his hands, at the chunk of flesh missing on one side, at the ghost of Fenrisúlfr's young jaws on the other side. "You didn't have to go out, you know."

"I didn't want you to feel you had to seek me out, to comfort me," Loki murmurs. "I wished to give you… Space."

"You know, growing up in Brooklyn… You never had space." Steve takes a slow lick of his ice cream, and he adds, "Some of the apartments here had twelve people in 'em. We grew up near the shtetel – the Jewish ghetto. That's how I knew Bucky. And you know, the Irish, we were still kinda looked down on a little, although that was fading fast, same as the Italians. But I was so used to being surrounded by people on every damn side, and yet no one was a stranger. I knew the name of every single person that lived in our building. Knew the names of every person in our street, and they knew me. It was close quarters living – Hell when there was stuff going around, I got scarlet fever one year, and a lot of kids my age died – but it wasn't like it is today. Sometimes I walk through this city, and I'm in a crowd of fifty people, but all it _feels_ like is space. I'm just saying, you know… Sometimes what you'd need in a situation isn't the same as what I need. You know?"

Loki slides his hand down the expanse of Steve's back, feeling the tense muscle there. "I'd like to tell you more about her someday," Steve murmurs. "Introduce you. But right now, I… I don't think I'm ready to do that." Loki feels a sick, cool sensation begin at his heart and spread gel-like over the surface of his lungs, his two livers, his entire torso. He feels it tug at the strings of his gut, feels the difficulty at keeping his expression entirely impassive, not allowing it to change at all.

Steve doesn't seem convinced. "Let's play a game," he murmurs. "Truth or dare."

"That's a party game."

"Two's a party." Loki feels the bitterness within him well like a storm, and he feels the distant urge to strike Steve, now, to leave upon his heel. The wolf, snapping its jaws within him, _hates_ how Peggy Carter dominates the other man's mind, although she is old, and Steve is not. Logically, Loki knows this line of thought to be stupid, and cruel, and self-indulgent…

"I don't want to," Loki says, his voice a little harsher than he intended, "I don't see the point."

"You can ask me questions," Steve says softly. "Fast-paced, whatever you want."

"Just not about her."

"Not about her."

"I don't want to." Steve sighs.

"That's okay." _It isn't okay_ , Loki wants to growl. _It isn't okay. Why am I so full of hatred all the time? Why can't I be like you? Kind and warm and easy, never feeling a bad thing about anybody? Why do I have to be the monster? You volunteered for your role – I was forced into mine._

Feelings torrent within him like a storm, and Loki feels his fists clench at his side: he is struck by a sudden desire to drag his teeth down Steve's neck, take him into pieces until he'd never _dare_ not to answer a question Loki posed him, make him kneel at Loki's feet—

"I'm going to sleep in my office," Loki says, a little thickly. Steve pauses for a second, looking him up and down.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Talking won't help."

"Talking always helps."

"No."

"Okay. You want to fight it out?" Loki freezes. "Conjure a different dimension. We can spar. Tire you out a little." A vision assails Loki's mind: Steve Rogers sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily with Loki's marks all over his chest, his neck, even a scratch bleeding lightly across his cheek. His hands are up, and he bows his head in submission. Loki feels _disgust_.

"I don't think that will help me either." Steve sets his jaw, and his eyes darken slightly.

"Fine," he mutters. "Go on, then. Go sleep in your office." Loki punches him. The motion is so swift and so sharp that Steve's head whips to the side with a sickening _crack_ , and Loki feels the head of Steve's blood upon his knuckles. Quietly, Steve laughs, and he gets to his feet. He widens his stance, throwing the ice cream into the air – Loki vanishes it before it can hit the ground. "Guess we're fighting after all."

"You are a child," Loki whispers.

"No," he replies. "You're just angry. Pent-up. If you won't talk, we'll work it out a different way." He speaks in a measured, commanding tone, as if Loki is little more than one of his soldiers, and it _infuriates_ him.

"This is ridiculous," Loki snaps. "It isn't any of your business where I—" Steve's jab goes for his throat, but Loki blocks the move, stepping into Steve's space and bodily pushing him back to prevent him from building up the momentum for another strike, but Steve responds by hooking one foot under Loki's ankle and elbowing him in the side as he falls. Loki lands with a huff of air and a sharp _thump_ against the floor.

Immediately, the bedroom fades away around them, replaced by the dust and sawdust of an arena, and Loki stands to his feet.

"No magic," Steve says.

"No shield," Loki replies.

"No knives."

"No talking." They stand for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, one figure from the ice poised against the other, and Loki feels himself – an ugly part of himself, an _angry_ part of himself – soar to be able to send the arrogant Captain America sprawling in the dust.

It is Steve that strikes first.


	26. The Chains We Break 4

Loki stands completely stiff with his hands loosely held at his sides, slightly away from his hips; Steve adopts a boxing stance, both fists held before his body. One protects his face, and the other his chest, and he moves on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

When Steve lunges, Loki sidesteps him, using his weight against him and tripping him into the sandy dust, where he sprawls hard on his belly, his chin in the dirt. Before he can move to stand, Loki leaps on top of him, taking one of Steve's arms and twisting it painfully against the middle of his back, but already Steve is moving beneath him. He has more grace than Loki had given him credit for, and he shifts fluidly from Loki's weight, sliding forward and then shifting, one foot hitting hard against Loki's the centre of Loki's torso, where both rib cages allow for a gap where his diaphragm rests.

Loki flies backwards, unable to grab for purchase, and he flips on the air, landing _hard_ on his crouching knees. Already, he is running forward, and he slides to the ground as Steve swings, taking the other man's feet out from under him. This time, Steve doesn't go down, instead landing on his hands and flipping backward, and Loki gets to his feet in time for Steve to try to punch him.

The blow hits Loki hard in the neck, and Loki feels himself choke, but then he brings his knee up hard, angling to the left so that it bruises the inside of Steve's thigh instead of going any higher, and Steve groans in pain.

"Feeling better yet?" he asks harshly, and Loki elbows him in the nose: he hears a sickening _crack_.

"No talking!" he barks back, and then Steve is sweeping his legs out from under him, using Loki's light weight to throw him to the ground and bring his own elbow _hard_ between Loki's shoulder blades. Loki cries out, digging his fingers into the dust, and he tries to snap his hands forward, but Steve grabs them both, pinning him down in the dirt. Steve straddles Loki's backside, pinning each of wrists in the sand with his ankles placing leverage on the backs of Loki's calves, and without being able to get leverage, Loki can't rise.

"I win," Steve murmurs in his ear, and Loki feels himself sob. It takes him by surprise, and he feels the drip of the other man's blood against the back of his neck – he oughtn't have done that, oughtn't have lashed out so savagely, oughtn't have been so nasty in the first place— "It's okay, it's okay. I'm gonna let you go, okay?" Loki nods.

Steve pulls back, sitting back on the ground of the arena, and Loki reaches out, seiðr gathering on his palm. Steve lets him, lets Loki's magic carefully weave itself through the bone of his nose and click it back into place, the cartilage mending beneath his touch. Loki's eyes are watering with shame.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

"I know," Steve says in a low voice. His eyes are hard. For the first time in a long time, Loki wishes he was dead. It comes to him all at once, a sudden desire for it all to _end_ – and for once, it is quite attainable. There is no destiny to wait for now. If he chose to end it all, it would truly end, and he could be free. "Listen. And I want you to listen to me _seriously_ , because I'm only going to say this _once_. I care about you, Loki, and I know you care about me, but that doesn't mean you get a free pass to demand whatever you want from me, and I am trying _damn_ hard to respect the boundaries you refuse to lay out verbally. I'm going off clues and deduction, based off the questions you avoid or don't answer. And when I clearly say "No, I'm not comfortable with that," the _least_ you can do is respect it, and not sulk like you're a _child_."

The words hit Loki like a flurry of physical blows, much worse than the pain that had dug into his back, and worst of all is the knowledge that Steve is _right_. Hands trembling, Loki drags them through his hair, and he feels his lungs _ache_ with every breath.

Slit his wrists, maybe – but he would easily heal from that, unless he took some sort of anti-coagulant, of which he is running low. Drown himself – but he can sustain himself without oxygen for quite some time… _Incineration_. The very thought of burning in purifying fire, feeling it lick at his flesh, feeling himself _burn_ —

"I don't like the look in your eyes," Steve says, very quietly. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't think that I should." The hard look in Steve's eyes fades slightly, softening into something else, and it is with that that Loki realises his voice had cracked in the middle. Guilt assuages him anew, washing through him like a mighty wave, and he shakes his head as Steve moves closer, but Steve ignores him. His hands touch Loki's shoulders, holding him fast, and Loki heaves in a gasping, ugly breath.

"No, I've seen that look before," Steve murmurs quietly. "Take us back to the apartment." Loki lets the arena fade away behind them, and he looks pitifully at Steve, taking in the blood still smeared on his lips and his nose, his chin…

"You shouldn't feel sorry for me," Loki whispers.

"I don't feel sorry for you. I feel upset that you're upset. Those aren't the same thing." Steve's hands settle hot on Loki's cheeks, and Loki closes his eyes. "You thinking of ending it?" Loki bites down hard on his lower lip.

"I wouldn't do that."

"Not what I asked." Shame bubbles inside Loki like a sea, and Steve looks at him for a long few moments. "You know, I don't think… I don't think this is normal."

"What?" Loki asks, ashamed by the fear in his voice.

"No, no, it's okay," Steve murmurs, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to Loki's, his right hand sliding to settle warm against Loki's neck. Loki is astonished by the comfort the movement brings him, and he feels himself shudder, pressing closer to Steve and feeling the stickiness of Steve's blood against his own nose, scenting the thick, coppery tang on the air. "Suicidal thoughts aren't something a healthy brain has. Under grief, under stress, that's different, but you… You have 'em pretty regularly, right?"

"I'm sorry," Loki whispers.

"You can apologize for breaking my nose, but you can't apologize for how you _feel_ , Loki." Shifting forward, Steve slides his arms under Loki's body, and Loki lets himself be lifted up and off the ground, lets Steve carry him. The shame does not go away, burning hot over his skin like the light from a burning sun, and it is worse like this, with Steve feeling the need to _infantilise_ him— "Tell me what you need."

"I don't need anything." Steve carries him through the door and into the bathroom, and he sits on the edge of the bath with Loki easily held in his lap.

"Not true." Loki watches the hot water taps as Steve turns them on, the water scaldingly hot where it bursts from the taps. He seems to remember, reaching for the cold tap, but Loki stops him, catching him by the wrist.

"No, I want it hot," he murmurs.

"Thought you would."

"I should go," Loki murmurs. "I—"

"No, see, I think if you go, that you're gonna go… You're going to go punish yourself. For feeling like this. I don't know what you'd do, exactly, but I— I don't know. Maybe go to Strange, let him hurt you? Somebody like that?" Loki remains silent, tasting the bitterness of his own silver tongue in his mouth.

"I wouldn't do that," he says finally. "I— I appreciate that Midgardians have made of me a symbol of infidelity, but that is wrong." And that is hardly _all_. On one planet, Loki is worshiped as a _patron_ of infidelity – mixed messages, a case of mistaken identity, and now… Such is godhood.

"I'm not accusing you of infidelity," Steve says in such a quiet voice that Loki can barely hear it over the heavy run of the water. "I'm saying that I think that you sometimes want someone to be a lot rougher on you than maybe I'd be comfortable with. You want someone to hurt you enough that you don't have to think any more. You crave it, because it's a controlled way to exhaust yourself of what you're thinking. Sound about right?"

"You're very perceptive," Loki says. "But I wouldn't ask you to hurt me."

"I wouldn't mind if you went and asked… If you got what you needed somewhere else, or got it in a different way, you know," Steve whispers. Loki shakes his head, _despises_ the very idea of letting someone else touch him, and Steve hushes him quietly. "Okay, okay. Into the bath." Loki hisses in pain as he slides into the steaming water, feeling it _bite_ at his flesh, and Steve slides in beside him, dousing his nose in hot water and washing away the blood as he turns off the taps.

"You shouldn't be comforting me. I just broke your nose."

"You shouldn't be trying to stop me from comforting you: you're thinking about some rough stuff right now. Seiðr the door closed, would you?" Loki obeys, sending a push of magic to close the door, and he allows Steve to pull him into his lap. "Loki… You can hurt me, and it doesn't mean I stop caring. You get that, right?"

 _But I don't deserve it,_ Loki almost says. _I don't deserve this._

"Yes," Loki says instead. "Of course." Steve doesn't look like he believes him. His hands wrap tightly, protectively, around Loki's belly, and he presses his face against Loki's cool belly. Loki's flesh is turning lilac as his blood rushes to the surface, attempting to keep him cold, but Steve doesn't say, doesn't stop Loki from relishing that hot pain against his flesh.

"If we weren't together, if you were on some other planet and you were feeling like this, what would you do?" Loki doesn't say anything, and Steve adds, "You can tell me. I'm not going to judge you."

"Maybe… Maybe let myself be— Take myself to a bar. Let someone take me home. Someone unkind." He can feel himself trembling, but Steve is holding him tightly, one of his hands moving to slide over the inside of Loki's thigh, the touch featherlight in the heat of the water. "We don't have to talk about this."

"I know we don't have to," Steve murmurs, and he drags his lips tenderly against the back of Loki's neck, making Loki sigh softly. "Why don't you tell me? The last time you were away from Asgard, and you were feeling like this… What did you do?"

"I normally lock myself away," Loki murmurs. "I require solitude at times like this." He hears the ring of Steve's silence, and self-loathing bubbles in him like a heated sea. "It isn't… Personal. It isn't about you."

"No, I know," Steve mutters. He sighs, and his hands slide over Loki's thighs, playing over his knees. "How long? Would you need to be on your own for?"

"I don't know," Loki admits. "Usually weeks."

"I don't think I'm comfortable with not talking to you for weeks," Steve says lowly. "I don't… I don't mean to imply I don't trust you. Just— That's a long time to not see you, when I know you're feeling low. I'd be worried." Loki nods. But what else is he to do, to assuage these feelings? He so hates to be around _anybody_ when he has such a turmoil within him – he is so cruel, and so sharp, and he so hates the idea of— "What about texting?"

"What?"

"What if every day, we just check in by text? You can be on your own, and I can just know that you're okay for the day." Loki feels the heat of Steve's chest against his back, and he stays very, very still. He can feel his lips part, feel a strange _burst_ of incomprehension within him.

"You would truly be—" Loki shifts in the water, leaning against the other side of the bath to look at Steve's face, but the younger man is nothing but quietly earnest. "You truly wouldn't mind? That I was just… Elsewhere? For weeks on end?"

"It's not about me," Steve says. "It's about _you_. Sure, I'd rather have you around, but if you need isolation, you need isolation." Loki understands what the other man is saying, but he can't quite make himself _believe_ it, searches Steve's face for some sign of deception, some clue as to his true meaning, but… Steve's expression is unwavering.

"You're quite certain?" he asks softly.

"If this is what you need," Steve says, shrugging his shoulders. "Check in by text so I know you're safe, and that's… That's enough."

"Right," Loki says softly. "Alright."

 **August 1st, 2012  
11:02AM (CEST)**

"And he suggested that I take a few weeks off, away from him." Loki presses his lips together, and then he gives a small shake of his head, neatly dragging the knife over the surface of the cool meat in his hand and feeling the rabbit's skin come clean away from the body. He uses a burst of seiðr to set the pelt to dry with the rest, ensuring he needn't touch it with his wet hands, and Sven watches him as he pares his own rabbit.

"Forgive me," Sven says delicately. "But I'm failing to see the issue here."

"He— I—" Loki lets out an irritated exhalation, setting his knife hard against a block, and he sighs, leaning back upon his heels and drawing his seiðr into his palms, using it to carefully separate the different cuts of meat from the bone and setting them neatly onto their plates for Sven to later set aside. The first time Sven had witnessed Loki's butchery, he'd been unabashedly curious, fascinated by the ease with which he had butchered the animal, but now he is more used to Loki's finesse, and yet… Still a curiosity shines in Sven's eyes, a satisfaction. Instead of warming his ego, it instead adds to Loki's uncertain frustration. "But he doesn't want me to go, I can _see_ that, and yet he's telling me to do so anyway!"

"Because he can see that you're struggling, and that you need this time away, no?"

"Yes, but that's…" Loki groans, taking what remains of the rabbit's skeleton and setting it aside. They settle into silence as Loki grasps at the last of the rabbits by the ears, neatly cutting into it and beginning to skin it with smooth, easy movements. How many rabbits has he skinned in his lifetime, across one planet and the next? Tens of thousands? Hundreds?

Sven carefully drags his knife over his own rabbit's side, splitting it into its constituent parts, and then he says in a mild tone, "Tell me about Thor."

"Thor?" Loki repeats. "What do you mean?"

"Thor… Does he have a habit of asking you how you felt about something?"

"I don't see the relevance of this," Loki says with an abrupt sharpness, losing his grip on the knife as his concentration wanes, and he hisses as he cuts through to the fur of the animal in his hands, tearing through it. He swallows hard, setting the knife aside with a clatter, and he moves to wash his hands, abandoning the butchery before it even begins.

When he turns back, Sven has neatly laid his own knife aside, and is looking at Loki with a pensive expression on his face. "It is relevant," he says at length, "because your relationship with Thor is a big part of your life, and shapes your other relationships. I ask you again: does Thor ask you how you feel about something? Or does he tend to make decisions _for_ you, regardless of whether you agree with them?"

Loki thinks of Thor arriving at his mill on Fennel 9, Mjolnir in hand, silently expectant as Loki moved to pack his things; he thinks of Thor in the back of his lecture theatre on Koom, impassively staring down at Loki and his blackboard; he thinks of Thor saying "me and my brother" before they marched on Jötunheimr, the land from which Loki's own wife and children had hailed—

And he thinks of how swiftly he'd settled under Thor's command, every time.

"He makes the right decisions," Loki says shortly. "He— I am not… I am not _noble_. When Thor makes a decision, I stand by it, because he's always right."

"And what about when he's wrong?" Sven asks. "What do you say?"

"He isn't wrong." Sven raises his eyebrows, and he crosses his arms loosely over his chest. Loki can feel an uncomfortable heat creeping through his body, burning in his cheeks and at the back of his neck: an urge to flee is making itself known, and he does his best to kick it back.

"And when he broke in, then, to suggest your magic be bound instead of your being executed? You told me you were very angry with him, at the time."

"But he was correct in the end," Loki says. "If it weren't for his stepping in, I would be dead, and my children would still be caged. It is… This was the better choice, and I was wrong to argue with his judgement."

"And Jötunheimr?" Sven asks sharply. "Invading Jötunheimr, invading a sovereign soil and murdering who knows how many Jötnar on a childish whim, endangering not only himself and his brother and his friends, but endangering the very safety of Asgard itself – was that right of him?"

"Of _course_ not, but—"

"Then why didn't you argue with him?" Sven demands. "Why didn't you say at the time that it was a foolish idea, that he was being foolhardy and gambling with the lives of others for the sake of a brash and thoughtless anger?"

"I couldn't!" Loki snaps.

"Why not?"

"I just _couldn't_."

"Give me a reason!"

"Because that's not how it works! Thor is a commander, a conqueror – if I argued with him about his every decision, if I were constantly second-guessing him—"

"But you _aren't_ second-guessing him, you aren't picking apart his choices for no reason! You knew before it happened that invading Jötunheimr was wrong, and you still followed him into the breach – why?"

"Because I had to!" Loki nearly _yells_ , and he adds in a harsh whisper, "Because Thor is _better_ than I am, and I _know_ that, and I _have_ to trust him because I know I can't trust myself!" He feels like his heart is in his mouth, it is beating so hard, and he feels himself trembling where he stands in his place: immediately, Sven's faux-anger has faded away, and he is looking at Loki with an uncomfortably sad look in his eyes. It isn't _pity_ , but Loki dislikes it all the same.

"Why can't you trust yourself, Loki?" Sven asks softly. "What does Thor have that you don't?"

"Everything," Loki says miserably. "But nothing less than what he deserves."

"And what do you deserve? Don't you think you deserve happiness? Peace? Isolation, when you need it?" Loki holds his tongue, feeling anxious bile rise in his throat, and he turns abruptly toward the sink. Vomit spatters against the steel basin, and Loki flinches when he feels Sven's hand on his lower back, steadying him and grounding him in the physical plane instead of allowing him to eke further into his haze of thought.

"I don't deserve anything," Loki whispers. "The universe doesn't owe me anything."

"Ridiculous," Sven says. "We are not discussing a ledger being balanced – we are not discussing a debt paid or owed. You have an _intrinsic_ value: you are, inherently, deserving of a certain modicum of respect and kindness. You were born with, and you continue to have, value. Loki, are you hearing me? You have a right to happiness. You have a right to health. You have a right to make your own decisions, even if they are wrong."

Loki feels like being sick again. He turns on the tap, washing the scent of his own bile away, and he rinses his mouth with water.

"Loki…" Sven's hand is uncomfortably warm against Loki's spine, but Loki focuses his concentration on it, feeling the flatness of his palm and the press of his aged fingers, feeling Sven's body beside his own. "You've lived a very hard life. Don't you ever think you deserve a few allowances?"

"Why should I?" Loki asks. "Others have lived much worse lives than me. And they're… They're still _good_. They don't do what I do. I hurt people, and I betray people, and I sow misery wherever I go."

"You can be good," Sven tells him softly. "Loki… I know it must be difficult to comprehend this, but your health, your basic well-being: that outranks the rights of others to be comfortable. Rage, grief, self-loathing – all of these are uncomfortable emotions, but you have every right to feel them, and to voice them. How can you bandage a wound when the axe remains in it? We need to talk about Thor, I think. Talk about how he makes you feel."

"I love him," Loki whispers, more to the sink than to Sven. "He's my brother."

"You can love someone and still hurt them. Someone can love you and still hurt you back. These weeks of isolation… Would you still like to visit me, on Wednesdays? Or do you need a break from me as well?"

"I don't… I just need solitude. Complete solitude."

"Very well," Sven says. He says it as if it doesn't matter at all – as if this is _normal_ , what Loki wants. "We shall reconvene once you feel ready for people once more. Shall we talk more today?"

Loki hesitates, and then he gives a slow nod of his head.

"What would Thor do?" Sven asks quietly. "If you said you wished for some weeks to be alone?"

"He wouldn't let me," Loki murmurs. "He would… Unless I made myself untraceable, he would come for me after three or four days had passed." He wipes his hands dry, and begins to assist in setting the sectioned pieces of rabbit into bags for the fridge or for the freezer.

"And how did that make you feel?" Sven asks.

"He would do it because he _loves_ me," Loki insists, his tone bitterly defensive. He feels like he has been backed into a corner. "He doesn't wish to see me isolate myself, and he would only wish to comfort me."

"I didn't ask why he would do it," Sven says delicately. "I asked how it made you feel."

"Irritated," Loki says. "Angry, sometimes. Like he was invading my space. It would… It would frustrate me, when he wouldn't listen to me, or when he would override my desires. Sometimes, being on Asgard, it would feel—" Loki feels himself trailing off. Guilt is heavy in his chest, like a weight of something rusted at its edges, and he feels like he may vomit at any moment. "I shouldn't feel like this. Thor has only ever done the best he could to me, and I am _ungrateful_."

"It is important for us to have boundaries in our lives," Sven says quietly, folding over a plastic bag and setting the meat to one side. "Someone can have the best intentions in the world, but if they continue to overstep our boundaries, it means we cannot trust them as ordinarily we might. Do you trust Thor?"

"With everything."

"Really? How many of your names does he know?" Loki is silent. "You see? You can trust Thor with your life, but not with the details of it. You fear he wouldn't understand, or worse, that he would devalue the parts of your life that are precious to you, on the basis of _protecting_ you." Loki swallows, hard. "Finish the thought you were starting before. Sometimes, being on Asgard, it would feel…?"

"Like I wasn't my own person," Loki whispers. "Like I was… Sometimes, it felt like I was only permitted to exist in my capacity as Thor's brother. If I tried to forge my own identity, if I tried to do something myself, I would be punished, or doomed to failure. Even in marriage, even in having children of my own, even as I surpassed the mighty Allfather in magical skill, Thor's shadow hung over me. Sometimes, I felt like I was Thor's shadow itself – as if I was merely an extension of _him_ , rather than being my own man." Loki has never voiced these thoughts before. It occurs to him he has never even dared to _think_ them, not all at once like this. He wishes he was dead.

"Sounds exhausting," Sven says softly. "And does Thor know that he makes you feel this way?" Loki shakes his head. "And why have you never told him?"

"It would hurt him," Loki says. "To think that he had hurt me, for so long."

"So you would rather Thor hurt you without realising, for another three thousand years, than perhaps hurt Thor _once_ , all at once, and let the two of you grow together? Loki, are you familiar with the concept of death by one thousand cuts?" Loki leans back against the kitchen counter, feeling a hollow ache in his chest.

"But that isn't— We each have our place, he and I. Mine is as Thor's left hand."

"And if that's the case, shouldn't Thor be your right hand?"

"It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?"

"Because Thor is a _king,_ by birth, by very essence. He was born to command."

"And what were you born for?" Sven asks, quietly.

"I don't know," Loki says. "I don't know."

 **August 1st, 2012  
3:19PM (EDT)**

When Loki returns home to his office, his every limb _aches_ , and he is utterly exhausted. Sprawled over the chaise long to the side of the room, on his back with his robes artfully arranged over his legs and smoking a long, white pipe carved of some sort of ivory, the Ancient-Loki lies. The smoke is purple and pungently bitter, seeping into Loki's lungs and warming him from within.

"Hey," he says, tone mild. "Want to, uh, want to come get high?"

"Norns," Loki says. "How did you _know_?" The Ancient-Loki grins, the silver tooth glinting in the dim light.

"I know many things, my child." Slowly, he moves to stand, and he moves across the room toward him, holding the pipe out from his body. Taking a long drag from its end, he leans in, and Loki opens his mouth, letting his double blow a thick cloud of violet haze into his lungs. The sensation is immediate, a sort of heated tingle that begins in his chest and radiates outward, and Loki sighs as he exhales, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils. "Come," the Ancient-Loki whispers, and Loki's office fades away around them.

 **Unknown.  
Unknown.**

Sakaar is just as Loki remembers it. Filthy, with trash piled up in every direction, and he feels himself grow slightly dizzy as the Ancient-Loki brings them down to the balcony of one of the great, golden spires, his knees weak. The Ancient-Loki supports him, letting Loki rest his entire weight upon the older man's arm, and they move together into a great throne room.

"Aw," says a familiar voice, and Loki turns to look toward it. "If it isn't, ha, if it isn't little Lo-Lo."

"No touching," the Ancient-Loki says lowly, and the Grandmaster freezes, one hand in the air, poised to brush against Loki's cheek. "This one is spoken for."

" _Seriously_?" the Grandmaster asks, and he looks Loki up and down, as if inspecting him for signs of ownership. It makes Loki laugh, and the Grandmaster gives him a grin. "Aw, honey, I gotta say… He's, uh, got nothing on _you_."

"A few billion lifetimes makes a bigger difference than one might think, En Dwi," the Ancient-Loki murmurs, and Loki watches as he leans forward, pulling the Elder into a kiss. It's strange, to see his own face from this perspective, even lined and marked with jewellery: the Ancient-Loki licks soundly into the Grandmaster's mouth, kissing him hard, and the Grandmaster all but _melts_ into the touch, his hands clutching at the sides of the Ancient-Loki's neck.

When they break apart, the Grandmaster has a dazed look glittering in his golden eyes, and the Ancient-Loki pats his cheek with plain condescension before moving smoothly past him, gesturing for Loki to follow him. In a haze of strange physicality, feeling his body's every nerve sing with the weight of his clothes, Loki does.

They sit together in a room dimly lit by scented candles, carpeted by thick cushions and furs, and Loki sighs as the Ancient-Loki draws Loki to lie with his head against his lap, his eyes half-closing. The pipe is brought to Loki's lips, and Loki takes a long, slow drag, feeling that wonderful smoke dig into his very _veins_ and slow the complicated haze of his thoughts, making Loki feel ever-more acquainted with the shape of his own body, the quiet crackle of his seiðr within him, the warmth of the Ancient-Loki's thighs beneath his head, an admirable cushion.

"It's hard, isn't it?" the Ancient-Loki asks softly. Loki looks up at him through the cloud of slowly dissipating smoke, and he feels the Ancient-Loki's fingers comb delicately through his hair. "Therapy?"

"Yes," Loki murmurs. "He just… Kept asking me about Thor."

"Thor is always complicated," the Ancient-Loki murmurs sympathetically, and Loki lets out a low, pleased groan as the Ancient-Loki's fingernails drag over his scalp, and his eyes flutter closed. "From universe to universe. You and he are soulmates, in a way."

"Soulmates?" Loki repeats, unable to keep the disgust out of his tone, and the Ancient-Loki laughs softly.

"I don't mean to imply an unsavoury element to your bond, my dear," the Ancient-Loki murmurs, his sonorous voice seeming to settle right into Loki's body, making itself at home beneath the expanse of his skin. "Although certainly, in some universes, Thor and Loki are lovers."

"That's awful," Loki whispers.

"In others still, you are sworn enemies."

"That's worse." Without seeing his face, Loki knows that the Ancient-Loki is smiling, and he lets himself go relaxed and boneless under the warmth of the pleasant touch through his hair, combing carefully through it. "Is he my only soulmate? In this universe?"

"Ah, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" The pipe comes to Loki's mouth once more, and he lets himself go liquid under its wonder.

"Tell me a story, Loki," Loki mumbles as smoke tumbles from between his teeth. "Distract me from it all, before I return home."

"Alright," the Ancient-Loki assents immediately – with such speed that vaguely, despite the haze of the physical Loki is comfortably bleeding into, Loki realises he must have known what Loki would ask for. The thought, the truth, sails across the length of his mind like a ship with full sails, and soon disappears beyond the horizon, leaving Loki's mind a blank sea once more. "It begins with a man of a thousand names…"

"Is this story about me?" Loki asks, immediately.

"Of course," the Ancient-Loki says.

"This is prophecy?"

"This is truth: it is story." Loki laughs, airily, and he feels like he is made of something thick and light – like he is a cloud in a distant sky.

"Alright," he whispers, and he lies back to listen, feeling himself melt into the comforting warmth of the Ancient-Loki's lap.


	27. The Chains We Break 5

**August 1st, 2012  
10:12AM**

"Does that sound… Right?" Steve asks, and he groans, setting his face into his hands. "It sounds so _stupid_ when I say it out loud, like I'm trying to let him be isolated, but if he needs space, he needs space."

"It sounds like you were being very thoughtful," McDonagh says, scratching an itch at the top of his head. McDonagh's office is warm, and although the windows are all wide open, it feels _stuffy_ – but Steve had asked not to sit with the AC on. Steve can't stand the sound of them, so loud in his sensitive ears it's unbearable, and when he needs quiet to think. "You're considering Loki's needs, and trying to think of _his_ perspective. That's all that can be asked of you."

"We had a fight," Steve murmurs. McDonagh raises his eyebrows, and he holds his notepad loosely against his thigh, looking at Steve with a serious expression on his face.

"First fight?" he asks, quietly.

"Nah," Steve murmurs. "But the first… I don't know. It felt like a first something. Since we've been living together, I guess. Which hasn't been long, but if you couple in the weeks we were travelling around…"

"I understand," McDonagh murmurs. "What did you fight about?"

"It was my fault," Steve says.

"Okay."

"He— It's so hard sometimes. I just try to _talk_ to him, and it's like he shuts down. The number of times I've asked him a question and he just changes the damn subject, like he hasn't heard it at all—" Steve cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. "And I said he could ask me… That he could ask me anything, and that I wouldn't get angry at him."

"And?" McDonagh presses quietly.

"He asked me about Peggy Carter… And I was furious. And he knew – he knew, when he asked, that I wouldn't want to talk about it. And I _said_ that, I said that I wish that I could, but that I wasn't ready, and he… He sulked. Like a _kid_. Like he doesn't pick and choose what questions _he_ wants to answer." Steve feels self-loathing hot within him, and he tightens his hands into fists, so tightly his fingernails dig crescent marks into his palms. "It's not his fault," he mutters, leaning heavily against the backs of his hands. "He doesn't… It's not his fault."

"That doesn't mean that it's yours," McDonagh murmurs quietly. "There doesn't have to be any blame here, Steve. Misunderstandings, underestimations, disagreements… They don't have to be anyone's _fault_."

Simple words. Obvious words. They hit Steve with the force of a sun.

"Oh," Steve says. He sees McDonagh smile.

 **Unknown  
Unknown**

"The man of a thousand names, we shall call him Isaz," the Ancient-Loki murmurs, even as his fingers card further into Loki's hair. Loki groans quietly as his fingers press against his scalp, slowly massaging the skin there. Isaz – _ice_. Loki's eyes are closed, and he feels the wonderful heat of the Ancient-Loki beneath him, so different to Loki himself – what has made him run so _warm_ , he wonders? For certainly, his fingertips are cool… "Isaz was once a ploughman, on the verdant farms of Gesinter, the great, lush land to the North of the planet Jafara. For years on end, he ploughed the fields with the strength of an ox, seeking naught more than the weight of the yoke upon his shoulders, seeking to lose himself in the strengthening of his own muscle, in the pain of his own evolution."

Loki remembers.

That had been not so long ago – scarcely two hundred years ago, at that. He remembers the lush, green pastures of every farm; he remembers the shortage of oxen and horses to plough, for a terrible disease had nearly wiped out the domesticated herds from one corner of Gesinter to the next… And Loki had been tired of books, had required physicality, and so he had taken it. Children would delight to see him as they passed, great Atari, who could lift the first sun on one shoulder and the second on the other, so they said. Loki smiles to recall it, distantly. How _content_ he had been, in those short three years – every day, he would work, pulling a plough, assisting in the building of some thing or the laying of a foundation, in digging wells—

"But then came a tragedy," the Ancient-Loki whispers.

"Yes," Loki agrees.

"Isaz, the mighty, the unbending, looked into the sky one day. One sun – the second sun – was bigger than it ought be. He thought he was imagining it, but surely it was true: instead of a ring in the sky, t'was a bracelet instead, a disc of red fire, growing larger with every minute that passed. It was time, Isaz mused, for him to leave. Evidently, some cosmic happenstance had thrown the sun off its axis, and soon it would wreak its incandescent destruction upon the planet Jafara – so things must end. He readied himself to go." Loki had felt fleeting grief, that his time upon the planet was cut short so swiftly, that the planet Jafara itself was doomed. He was worshiped under several names, on Jafara's shores, and had lived a dozen lives there… "But the people beseeched him. They came to him as he stood tall, with his pack upon his shoulder, and they _begged_ him. Save us, Isaz. Shield us from the sun that once warmed us with your ice."

(" _Atari! Atari!"_ the children yelled, rushing about his waist. Hundreds of them, straight from the school house and having met him on the street as they moved back to their homes, to the town square, each knowing they would soon be dead, and having no idea what death could be. _"Atari, you who can lift the sun on one shoulder, can't you stop it? Can't you cease its path?"_

The shine in their eyes, the darkness in their cheeks, the way they had _clutched_ at his belt loop, at the jacket slung carelessly about his waist, at his trousers… Loki's heart aches at the very memory, the way he had knelt down amidst them, all forty of them, and told them softly, quietly, that it was not to be. That he could not, as they hoped, as they _prayed_ , as they believed—

He was not a god. He was but Atari, the ploughman and the builder. He was neither hero nor sun-breaker.

And oh, how they had cried.)

"But Isaz refused," the Ancient-Loki whispers. His hands have ceased their movements now, instead resting where they are, carded in Loki's hair and cupping the crown of his head like Loki is something precious, something to be cradled. "Nay, he said, I will not help you, for I cannot, and to try would be my ruin. And so did Isaz leave, leaving a trail of ice in his wake – and the people lost their final hope."

(The children. He caught a glimpse of the great council hall when the sun was a great platter in the sky, when the light was unbearable, when grasses were beginning to catch. He glanced through the window, and he saw the townsfolk gathered, every one of them, on the floor of the great hall, many of them crouching away from the windows, which were growing hot with the light.

Not the children. Every one of them was gathered by the window, despite the way the sun threatened to scald their skin – and each of them looked at him with such _hatred_ in their eyes, that he should have the power to save them, and refuse. Loki had been unable to withstand it, the weight of their eyes on him, and he had slowly looked up to the sun in the sky, feeling its heat bite hard at the bare skin of his chest.

Their loathing was worse.

Nothing is so painful, nothing is so _unbearable_ , as to be hated by a child. The innocent, who have never hated aught before, but turn their hatred on you…

He had dropped his pack on the ground, letting it fall. And slowly, taking one step after the next, he had taken to the sky. Glancing back, just once, he saw a handful of children pressed up against the heating glass, looking at him with _awe_ in their eyes, awe, and love—

And hope.)

"But Isaz felt the weight of their tears upon his mighty shoulders, the weight of their desperation, their fear, and at the very last moment, he turned back. He risked his doom, and he pitted his great might against a _star_ — And won."

"Foolish," Loki mutters. "I could easily have died."

"But you didn't," the Ancient-Loki whispers. Loki opens his eyes, looking up at the Ancient-Loki's face. His smile is soft and indulgent as his hands, scarred and calloused, cup Loki's cheeks. Where he leans down to look at Loki, the many chains about his neck clink quietly against one another, hanging down away from his chest. "Isaz took that sun's power, and he _swallowed_ it. Its heat ran hot through his icy veins, and he used himself as a conduit for its energy: on the planet below, the trees grew taller and thicker and broader than ever below. The fields that Isaz had ploughed grew ripe with crops so high the peoples of Jafara would never hunger again – even the buildings he had helped build were covered over with a curtain of thick vine, which flowered in a thousand colours. And when the sun was exhausted, Isaz fell like a star to the ground below, doomed by the energy he had taken within him. He landed hard in the township he had fostered, and his skin _crackled_ with heat – none of the townsfolk dared move close to him, no one…"

"Except the children," Loki murmurs.

"Except the children," the Ancient-Loki agrees. "Each of them ran forth, and although Isaz protested, although he told them that he would surely kill them, they ignored him. They touched his broad shoulders and his mighty hands, and they wove flowers into his hair, which was green like the plants he had so-caused to flourish. So many, in fact, that the sky – once blue – was now green itself. And they encouraged the townsfolk to come forth, to take for themselves – as the children did – a little of the energy that plagued Isaz' tired body, threatening to melt his icy form to nothingness. And Isaz, too exhausted to do aught more, shared that awful heat with two _thousand_ … And thus did the people save him, as he had saved them."

Loki smiles.

"They named the town after you," the Ancient-Loki murmurs.

"Yes," Loki agrees. "But that day came not without its price. Those townsfolk… They live as they have done for two hundred years. No one is born, and nobody dies. Those children are still children, even now."

"They don't mind," the Ancient-Loki murmurs. "Why should you?"

Loki sighs.

"You don't tell that story to anybody," the Ancient-Loki says softly, his fingers drawing circles on Loki's cheeks. "Why is that?"

"Who would believe it?" Loki asks.

"People would believe it of Thor," the Ancient-Loki points out. "Why not you?"

"Is there more to the story?" Loki asks, and the Ancient-Loki's thin lips quirk into a smile once more. Crow's feet form at the edges of his ineffable eyes, and at the crease of his cheeks.

"Yes," the Ancient-Loki says, as if delighted to be reminded. "One day, some centuries later, Isaz would be a shield once more. He will stand against the current of the universe itself, and just as he stood in the path of that sun, he shall save everything. He shall be a _hero_."

"A hero? Him? _Me?_ " Loki scoffs. "Never."

" _Forever_ ," the Ancient-Loki replies, and he brings the pipe to Loki's mouth once more.

 **August 1st, 2012  
10:27AM**

"Is he very open about his feelings?" McDonagh asks. "Does he tell you, for example, when he likes or dislikes something?"

"Not verbally, usually," Steve murmurs. "Sometimes I worry…"

"Worry about what?" McDonagh presses.

"He said to me, last night… We were just talking about different stuff, about what his life used to be like, when he was much younger, and he said— So he's got a lot of identities, right? Like, he isn't just _Loki_ , he's hundreds of people at once, and he says that they're all parts of him, all of them making up a greater whole. Nat explained it as kinda like a stereoscope – you know, you only see through one lens at a time, but that doesn't mean there aren't another dozen discs in the scope."

"Right," McDonagh says, nodding his head slowly. He makes a small note on his pad.

"And I said that… I kinda related to that. Not— Not completely, you know, but that me, _Steve_ , and Captain America, they're different people. They're separate. And he said, _yeah_ , of course. I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion. And I asked him if he was waiting for me to figure out anything _else_ …" Steve presses his lips together, and then he says, "And he said it wasn't like that. He said that because of how different we are, in age, because of like, how much more experience he has than me, that he has to basically pick and choose the stuff he teaches me himself, and the stuff he lets me figure out on my own. That otherwise, he'd just be stifling my growth." McDonagh watches him for a long few moments, his watery eyes focused on Steve's face, and Steve can see the slight quirk of his smile, the distance in it.

"Isn't that good?" McDonagh asks quietly. "You know, Steve, there are only a few years between us, but _really_ – in terms of your experience, in terms of the life you've lived – you're only what, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?"

"I know, I know," Steve murmurs. "He's… He's respectful, and he wants me to be able to make my own way, I _get_ that. But the thing is— He's doing all that, and he's thinking of me. But he said that he lets his brother think things about him that aren't true, that he lets Thor think of him as a worse guy than he is, just because it'll make _Thor_ a better person. Isn't that— Don't you think that's screwed up?"

"Screwed up is very relative in my profession," McDonagh says, and Steve feels himself laugh. "Are you just worried about his relationship with his brother, or are you worried that this could mean he might be doing something similar with you?"

"Both, I guess," Steve says. "I don't know. Thor's a good guy, but sometimes I can't help but think that that relationship is… Off. Skewed."

"Perhaps you're right," McDonagh says. "Perhaps you should speak to him about it."

"Maybe," Steve mutters. "Maybe. I don't know how to talk to him. I told you, he never… He never outright _says_ how he feels. Half the time, when I see he's pissed at something, it's just deduction, based off the way he wrinkles his nose or the way he avoids something."

"Perhaps you should outright mention feelings, then," McDonagh suggests quietly. "Say, simply, how does this make you feel? How do you feel about x or y? What makes you feel safe, happy, respected?"

"That seems…" Steve trails off.

"Unnatural?" McDonagh asks. Steve nods. "Communication rarely feels as natural as it should. Sometimes, we must communicate through difficult subjects… That isn't easy, and it doesn't feel natural."

 **Unknown  
Unknown**

Loki groans, going utterly boneless on the table. The Ancient-Loki's fingers continue, drawing hard over the length of his back and digging hard into the heavy muscle there, and Loki presses his face into the pillow that's been set under his chin. Loki is gloriously high, floating on a wave of comfortable thoughtlessness, and yet alongside that astral simplicity, he is grounded in the physicality of the Ancient-Loki's fingers drawing over the planes of his back, digging into the skin.

"Thor is complicated," Loki mumbles, echoing what the other man had said earlier.

"Always," the Ancient-Loki agrees sagely. "He doesn't mean to be cruel, when he is. None of them do – not even Odin, or the rest."

"The rest?" Loki repeats, a little distractedly. "You mean Mother?" The pause is almost infinitesimal.

"Yes, Frigga," the Ancient-Loki says, his tone mild. "My apologies: I get confused at times, from one reality to the next. I was thinking of Baldr." It tastes like a lie, but Loki is too relaxed to address it.

"Baldr," Loki repeats quietly. "Do I always kill him? In the universes where he exists? I remember doing that. I remember killing him. Divine memory."

"Not always," the Ancient-Loki murmurs, and he draws more warm, tingling oil over Loki's back, letting it pool in the divot of his spine. Loki _melts_ into the massage table, amazed at how _pleasurable_ it is, to feel the Ancient-Loki's fingers drag over his flesh, to dig into the skin and slowly tease away the knots in his muscle. Perhaps it is the drug that makes him so amenable – he barely remembers drawing off his shirt to sprawl upon this table, but certainly, he must have done it. He doesn't mind. Intimacy, like this, physical intimacy… There seem to be no limits, between himself and himself. "You can tell Thor things, you know. He will try to listen."

"He's never tried before," Loki mutters, and the Ancient-Loki pinches the sensitive skin at his hip, making Loki hiss in pain.

"You know that's not true," the Ancient-Loki scolds him quietly, already soothing the pain away. "He often tries, in his own way. You ought not attack his heart simply because you dislike his method of presenting it."

Guilt comes, but it is fleeting, chased away by smoke. "No," Loki agrees, with no small amount of reluctance. "I oughtn't."

"You know," the Ancient-Loki murmurs, dragging his fingernails over Loki's shoulder blades and making tension bleed from him like _light_. "I think that in the past, you've isolated yourself because you have no one to communicate your feelings to. Because you feel lonely, whether you're with people or without, and you would rather bury your heart in painting or weaving than to discuss it with another."

"Maybe," Loki says.

"I'm not saying not to take your weeks away, my darling," the Ancient-Loki says softly. "I'm simply saying not to lock the door." Loki thinks on it, for a long few moments.

"Okay," he says.

 **August 1st, 2012  
10:55AM**

"Thanks, Doc," Steve murmurs. He shakes McDonagh's hand, and he sees the older man smile, the expression pleasant and warm. "Wish me luck, would ya?"

"Why?" McDonagh asks.

"Today's Wednesday. We're having dinner with the Maximoffs on Friday. The twins. The kids. Magneto."

"Oh, shit," McDonagh says, shaking his hand a little harder. " _Good luck_." Steve laughs, and McDonagh laughs with him, giving him a little salute as Steve heads out, his hands in his pockets as he descends the stairs.

Today, it's a day off. He catches a movie, sits in the back of the theatre on his own to watch it. _Star Wars: A New Hope_ , 1977, director George Lucas. It's a pretty good flick, and he ticks it off the list – one down, five more to go. As he leaves the movie theatre, adjusting the set of his baseball cap to keep his face hidden, he sees a few groups of people glance at him, perplexed and suspicious… 'Cause what kinda crazy person goes to the movies on their own, huh?

The thing about 2012, he decides, is that everybody's so caught up in each other's lives. Social media, texting, constantly being hooked into other people, even just having security cameras everywhere – people, it seems to him, are antsy about doing stuff on their own. What if somebody sees them? What if somebody realises they enjoy their own company?

Steve chuckles to himself, and he walks out toward Pier 45.

Loki is waiting for him, perched on the edge of a fence with an ice cream in his hand – Raspberry Ripple, and he gives Steve a small smile.

"Hey," Steve says. "I haven't eaten lunch yet."

"Spoil your lunch," Loki says magnanimously, and Steve's lips twitch as he takes the cone, bringing it up to his mouth. They fall into step together as the walk down the path of the Hudson River Park, and Steve inhales, taking in a weird scent that clings to Loki's clothes.

"You been smoking?"

"Oh, I was _very_ high until, I don't know, twenty minutes ago." Steve's lips quirk into a small smile, and he looks at Loki. The guy is… Visibly relaxed. There's not so much tension held I his shoulders, and he's loose-limbed and comfortable, and his smile is free and easy. Good.

"They say Mary Jane's pretty good for depression," Steve says.

"Really? I don't know her." After a moment's incredulous pause, Steve shoves him in the shoulder, and Loki laughs, interlinking their arms. They must look funny, side by side – Steve, in his baseball cap and his sport jacket, his slacks; Loki with his hair in a bun, a bar through his ear and his pink shirt tight to the panels of his chest and abs, his pants so tight they tuck _into_ his ankle boots instead of falling over them. "How as therapy?" Steve glances down at Loki's hands, and he sees the black paint shining on the nails. It's a good look.

"Fine," Steve says. "Learned a new trick for, uh, communication."

"Really? Do tell."

"It's pretty simple," Steve admits, taking a long lick of ice cream. "You start every sentence with I. _I_ feel, _I_ think, _I_ believe… No assuming what the other person thinks, or feels. You just kinda get across how you think about something, then ask them to do the same."

"That's good," Loki murmurs. "I'm willing to try that one." He looks out over the Hudson river, his expression momentarily far away. "I spoke with my counterpart. The Ancient-Loki." Steve inhales, slowly.

"Yeah?" he asks. "What'd he say?"

"Not much," Loki murmurs. "I rather got the impression he just wanted something to do, so he whisked me away. Painted my nails, cut my hair. Gave me a massage. The whole service." Steve laughs.

"God, what does a guy gotta do to get one of those, huh? I can't tell you what I'd give for an old man Steve Rogers to come and give me a free shoe shine." Loki grins, showing his teeth, and he leans in to Steve for just a moment, his fingers spreading over Steve's forearm. Steve notices an old guy watching them as he passes, and he nearly stiffens, but the guy just smiles, distantly, and averts his gaze forward again. "No, but… Really, really. He say anything useful?"

"He made some vague predictions about my future," Loki murmurs. "Nothing more useful than the average fortune cookie."

"Can't win 'em all, I guess," Steve murmurs.

"May I tell you a story?" Loki asks softly. "It's self-indulgent, but… I've never told it before. I'd like to."

"Sure," Steve says quietly. Loki's expression is quietly contemplative, his thin lips pressed into a line.

"I'm not sure when to start," Loki murmurs.

"Well, let's start with, uh, who the story's about."

"His name was Atari," Loki says. "He was a Jafaran. Eight feet tall at the shoulder, with shoulders like an ox, he towered over most Jafarans… But he was gentle. Exceedingly so. On Jafara, a plague had devastated many of the livestock populations, and the townspeople of Ataron – then known as Farese – they lacked animals with which to pull their ploughs. But Atari, he wished only for the meditative work that such an act of strength would offer him, and for room and board, he ploughed the fields himself."

"Is this a story about you?" Steve asks softly. There is a long pause as they walk together, Loki's face a mass of conflicting thoughts. It's not a hard question for most people, but maybe it _is_ hard for Loki. He thinks of how much Loki had wanted to hide his other selves in the first place, worrying that it'd be uncomfortable, that it'd feel strange, for humans to understand.

"Yes," he says, finally. "It is truth: it is story. It's about me."

"Good. I love hearing about you," Steve murmurs, and as he finishes his ice cream, he listens carefully to Loki talk.

It's a good story. It's a better truth.

 **August 1st, 2012  
06:18PM**

"It makes me feel… Sad."

It is Loki that suggests the game. They both like art, and so they move from one canvas to the next in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, asking a simple question. _How does it make you feel?_ They've been here three-and-a-half hours. It's the best date Steve's ever been on – least of all because they can walk around the whole thing, hand-in-hand.

"Sad?" Steve repeats, and he turns back to the canvas. _La Coiffure_ , reads the caption. _1905._ His gaze flits over the woman in the foreground, at her naked thighs and her breasts, at the way she is leaning forward so that the woman behind her can reach for her hair. Their expressions aren't sad. The first woman looks contemplative, and the second one, simply concentrated on her task. "Why?"

"I used to brush Thor's hair, when we were children," Loki murmurs. "I would always bathe first – he would insist. And after, when I was already dry, he would sit naked on a cushion, and I would stand behind him, and brush his hair – and braid it. He grew his hair out for a while, when we were— I don't know, the equivalent of—"

"You don't have say equivalents," Steve says softly. "You can just say how old you were. I won't be weirded out."

"Really?" Loki asks, amusedly. "You won't be deterred whatsoever, if I say, _when I was two hundred-and-forty, and he was three-hundred-and-twelve?"_

Steve pauses. "Yeah, okay. That's pretty weird." Loki laughs. Looking back to the canvas, the smile slowly fades away from his face, and Steve asks, "It make you sad because things aren't like that anymore?"

"It makes me sad because I realise, looking back, that I never spoke. That was a listening time for me – I was usually sleepy from my bath, and I never felt like talking. So I would sit Thor in front of me, and occupy myself with his hair, and I would have him talk instead. He would try to ask me questions, try to get me to talk too, about our days, about what I felt on one thing or another… And I never did." Loki's hand shifts where it is entwined with Steve's, and Steve inhales, very slowly. "Thor has never learned to listen to me," Loki murmurs, "because I've never given him the opportunity to learn how."

"It's not your fault," Steve says.

"Isn't it?"

"Nah. You don't have to, uh, you don't have to assign blame, for something like this. Sometimes, a miscommunication is just a miscommunication. It doesn't have to be anybody's fault." Loki blinks, leaning back slightly, and Steve can see his expression subtly change as he considers what Steve has said. " _Eanna McDonagh, 2012_." Loki lets out a short exhalation, not quite a laugh, and he turns back to the Manguin.

"How does it make _you_ feel?" Loki asks.

"I don't know," Steve says, looking over the painting. "I guess sometimes… Back when I was a kid and a teenager, you know, I never really talked to girls. I was short, and I was skinny, and I had asthma. I was that kid _wheezing_ in the back of class, who kept fighting the bigger guys. Girls never liked me. Then, with the serum, it's like every gal'll give me the time of day, but I—" Steve slowly shakes his head. "It's different, being a woman, and I know that it is. You know, my parents raised me to be respectful of women, and especially with Peg in the army, I knew they got a hard rap where the men didn't." He feels Loki stiffen slightly at the mention of Peggy, but he rubs his thumb slowly over the side of Loki's pale hand, and he feels Loki relax marginally. "I guess I look at pictures like these, of women, and I wonder what they talk about, when they're on their own. How differently they talk. Why."

"Well, now my childhood anecdote seems ridiculous," Loki murmurs.

"Um, excuse me," says a voice behind them, and the two of them turn as one, their hands still entwined. Staring up at them is a young boy, and immediately Loki offers him a warm, friendly smile. The kid's small, with mousy hair and dark eyes, and he wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the Iron Man helmet. "You're—" The kid looks around, then lowers his voice to say, "Um, I know who you guys are. I don't wanna, um, I don't want to ruin your date or anything, but I was wondering, if you'd uh—"

"Of course he'll sign your autograph," Loki says, and the kid grins. "Here—" Loki draws a pen from behind the kid's ear, and he laughs.

"Was that real magic, or sleight of hand?"

"The best tricks involve both," Loki says sweetly, and Steve takes the pen, taking the kid's notebook. "What's your name, young man?"

"Uh, Peter," the kid says. "Peter Parker."

 _To Peter,_ Steve writes on the page. _Loving the shirt. Captain America._

He hands the notebook back, and Parker grins, then holds the notebook to Loki. Loki stares at it, uncomprehending. "Uh, Mr Bölson? You don't have to—"

"No, of course I will," Loki says hurriedly, and Steve doesn't miss the sudden lilac that dances over Loki's cheeks as he takes up the pen, signing the next page with a flourish.

"He's never been asked for his autograph before," Steve murmurs, nudging the kid in the shoulder. "You keep that safe, huh?"

"I will," Peter says, and Loki hands the notebook back. "So, like, you guys… I didn't know Captain America was gay." Loki and Steve exchange a look.

"Uh—"

"Peter!" says a voice from behind them, and a broad-shouldered guy in his forties sets his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Uncle Ben, I'm fine," Peter says. "I was just asking these guys to point me to the Picassos." The uncle gives them a polite smile, hurried, and as he leans Peter away, he turns back to them, and gives a small salute. Steve can't help the smile on his face as he rubs the back of his neck, and he meets Loki's eye.

"That was _cute_ ," Loki murmurs. "I've never used that word before, but it seems _so_ apropos."

"Well, yeah, and you've ruined the novelty of you saying _cute_ by following it with apropos, so…" Loki draws him abruptly close, so that their chests are flush against one another and Loki's hands are on his hips. Steve leans into the kiss, and when they break apart, he asks, "So… How did that make you feel?"

"Good," Loki murmurs softly. Like a hero."

"See? Atari's not so far behind you." He feels the freezing cold of Loki's chest against his own, strangely comforting, and he asks, "I didn't ask you, at the time. How did it feel, to— To swallow the sun?"

"It was agony," Loki murmurs. "The worst pain I'd ever felt, occupied a thousandfold with every second that passed. I felt my blood boil in my veins, felt my organs tear and reconstitute themselves a dozen times per minute, felt my bones crackle with energy current." The words evoke memory, and for just a second, Steve is back in Howard Stark's crazy tank, electricity running through him at an insane voltage as a serum settles in his veins—

"Sounds familiar," he says quietly. With slow, grim understanding, Loki nods his head. "D'you think you'd ever have more kids?" For a few moments, Loki's expression is neutral as they move away from the Manguin, and slowly toward the exit.

"I don't know," Loki says. "Two months ago, I would have said _never_. Now… Things are different. Probably not. But the idea doesn't fill me with the same terror that once it did. What about yourself?"

"I don't know," Steve says. "I never thought I'd live old enough to have kids of my own. First I was sick, then in the army…" Steve trails off, and then he shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know, Loki. Could happen."

"Could happen," Loki repeats. "This was nice. I… I enjoyed this. Speaking with you so openly. We ought play this game more often, I think."

"Okay," Steve agrees, readily, easily. "Okay."

They walk home together, hand-in-hand. Steve thinks of asking, on the way, if Loki is still gonna go off for a few weeks, if he's still gonna isolate himself… But Loki is relaxed, and cheerful, and he's almost worried he'll offset that good mood by asking about the one that preceded it.

"You ready for the dinner on Friday?" he asks instead.

"More ready than you are," Loki murmurs. "Do you think we'll survive?"

"Who is to say?" Loki laughs, tipping his head back, and he leans back against a street lamp that isn't lit yet, because the sun has yet to sink down. "How does it make you feel?" Steve asks, nodding up toward the lamp's duo of dim bulbs, and Loki looks up at it before turning back to Steve.

" _Voraciously_ sexual," he says. "And yourself?"

"It's the biggest coincidence," Steve says, leaning closer. "But I feel just the same." They don't even bother to walk the rest of the way home: a dimensional transitway hooks them around the waists, and they tumble into bed already half-dressed, still laughing.


	28. The Chains We Break 6

**August 2nd, 2012  
4:01AM**

Loki clambers out of bed and immediately shifts between dimensions. New York is immediately gone from him, and instead he finds himself comfortably in his library in the Fon System, surrounded by books on every side, and away from anybody else in the universe. There are other places he might go to, of course, but this library is distinctly _his own_ , and it is… Safe. Comfortable. _His_.

Skywalking toward the ceiling, he clambers onto the bed that hangs by chains from the very top of the room, enjoying the hardness of the stone mattress, and he lies down on it, alone.

Loki likes to share a bed, this much is true: although Steve is very warm, it is pleasant indeed to feel him in the bed beside him, a shadow of heat in the bed with him, a _comfort_. But there is something to be said as well, Loki thinks, for sleeping alone.

He does, for many hours more.

 **August 2nd, 2012  
7:15AM**

When Steve texts him, to ascertain his safety, Loki assures him of it.

Then, he goes back to sleep.

 **August 2nd, 2012  
12:12PM**

Loki stands from bed, eats a handful of dry crackers, and returns to it. He sleeps some more.

 **August 2nd, 2012  
03:51PM**

At some point, Loki went from _asleep_ to _awake_ – he knows not when or how. But for the longest time, he lies in the centre of his stone bed, staring up at the carved mahogany of his ceiling and feeling absolutely nothing at all, _thinking_ absolutely nothing at all.

It is utterly exhausting.

 **August 2nd, 2012  
09:52PM**

Loki fills half a dozen canvases with careful paint, creating images in oil.

He decides he despises them all, and burns them in a fit of pique that he regrets before the process is even finished. Although he could still save the paintings yet to burn, he finds he lacks the energy to do so, and so instead he powerlessly watches them burn.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
02:48AM**

Loki cannot sleep. It his own fault.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
03:09AM**

Remembering abruptly that he ought eat something, Loki devours nearly an entire loaf of bread, and washes it down with an acidic drink from the P'nar system.

He passes out whilst taking a dip cool pool of the fountain.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
09:25AM**

Still damp, Loki clambers from the fountain to his bed.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
04:02PM**

"Oh, _shit_ ," Loki says, suddenly sitting up in bed. "I need to bake."

 **August 3rd, 2012  
6:15PM**

Steve watches in silence as Loki carefully sets the pastries he had made onto a plate. They look _incredible_ , made of a complicated, many-layered pastry that melts in the mouth, and through their artful twist he has woven lines of a strawberry compote and a dusting of dark cocoa and…

It's artful. Easy. Steve could watch him bake for days at a time.

It's been… Weird, the past day or so.

Yesterday morning, Steve had woken as dawn broke, and the bed beside him had been empty. Loki wasn't to be found anywhere in the apartment, even in his office, and Steve had done his best to force his worry down until after his morning run and breakfast.

 **Steve Rogers, 07:12  
Hey, you good?**

 **Loki, 07:12  
Yes. : ) I am simply taking some time to myself. See you tomorrow, at around four?**

 **Steve Rogers, 07:13  
Sure, sounds good.**

It had made Steve laugh, to see Loki use a _smiley_ , but—

It had been odd, too, moving around in the apartment and having no idea where the guy was. Was he sitting down somewhere, painting at an easel? Was he out in Alaska? Was he right next to Steve, just invisible, so that Steve wouldn't talk to him?

Weird. _Weird_. But good, too.

When Loki had showed up at four o'clock, already wearing an apron to begin his work in the kitchen, he had seemed well-rested and at-ease, and Steve had thrilled to see him with such a peaceful expression on his face. In the meantime, they've been talking about the family dinner tonight, and although he feels a little nervousness, Loki seems entirely comfortable. He lets his hair down, allowing it to hang loose around his shoulders, and Steve watches as he conjures two chains that neatly move over it, holding it back from his head and creating a loose pair of bands on each side of his head, with a thinner chain running down the parting of his hair.

"I like that," Steve murmurs. "You've worn that before?"

"Not on Midgard," Loki murmurs. He smiles, reaching up and drawing his fingers over the side of one of the chains. "I stole this many years ago, from a merchant on K'trai. He blasphemed me, abusing his workers in my name, and so I sunk his fleet of ships into the ocean. Tricksters… None of us commit cruelty for the sake of cruelty. There is a sense of justice in all of us."

"All of you?" Steve asks softly. "What, that's like… A _kind_ of god?"

"A common one," Loki agrees. "Two examples here on Earth would be Dionysus and Ananse."

"Ananse," Steve repeats. "I know Dionysus, but… Who's that?"

"He's wonderful," Loki murmurs, his lips quirking up fondly at their edges. "He's truly a terrible old man, most incorrigible. I very much look up to him. I know not where he is worshiped, precisely, but I know the people who worship him – the Akans. He is a spider: not merely a trickster, he is also a patron of storytellers. We share much in common." He chuckles, and he reaches out, adjusting a button on Steve's shirt. "I've not thought of him in _centuries_ … Not since I last came to Midgard, millennia ago."

"And Dionysus?"

"Oh," Loki says, shaking his head dismissively. "I think of him all the time. I've not seen him—" Loki sighs, softly. "Not since some months before the revelation of my blood." His hand moves from Steve's chest to his own, settling loosely over his heart. "Funny, how you can forget you miss someone until you happen upon their memory." That is funny. Steve thinks of all the people he almost forgets, in the day-to-day – the other Howling Commandos, Doctor Erskine, his mom and dad, Bucky…

"Maybe you should write to him," Steve murmurs quietly. "I kinda… I don't know. I guess I thought you didn't really have any friends in Asgard."

"I didn't," Loki says simply. "Dionysus almost never came to Asgard – occasionally he would accompany a party of the Olympians, but almost never would he deign to do so. He would entertain a Dökkálf, a dwarf – even an _angel_ before he would permit an Æsir at his table, myself excluded."

"An angel?" Steve repeats, but Loki looks past him to the clock on the wall, and he pats Steve's chest.

"You ought change into a dress shirt," Loki says, turning back to the plate and setting a glass cover it. "If you wish to walk, we ought go." _An angel_ , Steve repeats in his head as he moves to grab the blue shirt from the bed. _An angel_. Surely, surely, there's something off about Loki's Allspeak, if he's saying an _angel_. What—

No. No. A question for another day.

"Are you gonna wear a tie?" Steve calls out into the corridor, buttoning up the dress shirt.

"What? I— No. Why, are _you_ going to wear a tie?"

"Not if you're not going to wear a tie. But it's— They're not gonna wear ties, right? Are we going to look underdressed if we don't wear ties?"

"I don't know," Loki says, appearing in the corridor as he pulls his apron off. Loki is already smartly dressed, his silver-grey shirt tucked neatly into tight blue trousers. Again, he wears ankle boots – Steve couldn't wear them himself, but he rather likes this pair, and they give Loki an extra two inches of height with their block heel. "Surely it's better to be mildly underdressed than _over_ dressed, though. I should hate to appear in ties to see everyone else in mere jerseys."

"Right. Right, yeah, you're right."

 **August 3rd, 2012  
06:48PM**

The boy that answers the door is wearing a tie, and Steve kicks himself.

"Hello, William," Loki says, and then adjusts himself. "I mean— _Billy_." Billy grins, looking up between the two of them through his curtain of brown hair. He wears a red dress-shirt with his black tie, and he's matched the yarmulke with the shirt, its colour a deep, satiny red. He looks like his mother – Steve sees that immediately, sees the similarity in their soft brown eyes and warm, dark skin, and he immediately puts his hand out to shake.

"Hi there, Billy. I'm Steve."

"Steve," Billy repeats, a little awkwardly. "I'm, um— Kind of a fan. Come in, come in." The apartment is cosy and warm, with blankets and knitted cushions on every surface, crystals hanging from the window, tapestries in rich reds and golds and yellows on the walls… Yeah. Yeah, Steve can see this is Wanda's place immediately. "This is my boyfriend, Teddy."

"Hello there, Teddy. Please, call me Loki," Loki says warmly, holding the plate of pastries against his hip as he shakes Teddy's hand, and then he pats Steve's shoulder, moving into the apartment and disappearing through an archway. Teddy's a tall boy with broad shoulders, his blond hair straight and hanging over his blue eyes, and Steve greets him with a friendly smile and a handshake.

"So you guys are… Hulkling— And Wiccan."

"That's right," Teddy agrees, and he gestures for Steve to join them in sitting down on the sofa. The living room has a sofa and several comfortable chairs gathered around an empty coffee table, under which Steve can see a dozen gameboards neatly stacked. The rest of the living room is dominated by a dining table set for ten, where long candles are lit in trios in three golden candelabras, and like Steve, Wanda doesn't seem to own a television.

"Stop it," he hears. "Stop, I will— You pop that gum one more time and I'll— _Come here!"_ There is a crash in the corridor, and then Pietro and a younger man – a man the spitting _image_ of Pietro himself – are wrestling on the floor, with Pietro pinned beneath his junior in a blur of green and grey respectively. There's a choking sound, sped up and unnaturally fast, and then Pietro is standing above his nephew, pinning him with a foot on his chest, and he is a tissue in his hand. " _Filthy_ habit. Disgusting. It'll rot your teeth, and more importantly, it inhibits hunger – you know, in Singapore—"

"This isn't Singapore, you crazy old man, let me _up_ —"

"I'm not going to let you up, young man, until you learn the error—"

"Pietro," Wanda says, her hands on her hips as she comes out from the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her left shoulder. Behind her, Loki watches Pietro with raised eyebrows, seeming amused. "Please don't stand on your nephew." Pietro steps back, and immediately the younger speedster is on his face, glaring up at his uncle – and he _must_ glare up at him, because Pietro is nearly eight inches taller than him. Clinging to the back of his head, pinned neatly in with his silver hair, is a yarmulke of dark blue silk.

"Hey, Piet," Steve says.

"Hello, Captain Rogers."

"Captain— Oh my God, you're—" Pietro lifts his nephew _bodily_ by the scruff of the neck, and Billy laughs, putting his head in his hands. "I meant _gosh_ , Uncle Piet, put me down!"

"Apologise," Pietro says, unflinching.

"I'm _sorry_ for blaspheming. You happy?"

"Almost never," Pietro says, but he drops the kid down, and immediately the young man is across the room, a grin on his face. Up close, Steve can see he has Pietro's grey eyes and the same shock of silver hair, but his features are much more like Wanda's – richer, darker skin, and round lips and cheeks.

"I'm Tommy," he says, all his teeth on show. "G— _Gee_ , it's great to have you here, sir, seriously, _really_ —" Tommy's hand is hot to the touch, much like Pietro's are, and Steve smiles as he shakes it. He glances to Pietro, and he sees there is a slight smile on his serious lips, a smile he shares with Wanda.

There is a knock on the door, and Pietro disappears from sight, flickering down the corridor.

"Mom, you need anything else done?" Tommy asks, speeding across the room in much the same way, and Wanda reaches out, gently patting his cheek. There's only an inch of height between them, Tommy just taller than his mother.

"Would you get a cushion for your grandfather's chair? And Tommy, don't run so hard in the house – you'll wear out my carpet."

"Okay," Tommy says, and he walks at a more human pace, bumping fists with Loki (who seems baffled by the motion, but performs it dutifully) as he moves toward a store cupboard to pull out a cushion. Steve looks to the door, and he sees Erik Lehnsherr. He's taller than his son by a few inches, but the resemblance between their faces is utterly uncanny – Steve had expected Erik to have pale skin in comparison to his children, but his skin is only a shade or so lighter, retaining a dusky brown colouring, and his features have the same hard, angular planes as Pietro's, giving him an eternally severe look and a natural scowl. The main differences are in his eyes, which are a piercing blue instead of grey, and his hair, which is cut short and tight to his head instead of drawn loosely back and relatively long, like Pietro's own. By no means does he look his age – he looks like a youthful sixty, not like an eighty-something.

Then, Lorna Dane. She's beautiful, but it's a slightly terrifying beauty, much like the beauty of Loki himself. Her hair cascades in green waves around her head, and her dark lips are held in a serious line. She's much paler than her father and her siblings, but she shares some of Erik's bone structure. And then, for some reason, Remy LeBeau. Why the Hell _he's_ here, Steve doesn't know.

"Mr Lehnsherr," Steve says, standing gracefully to his feet, and he offers his hand. Erik watches him for just a moment, glancing down at Steve's hand as if wondering if the two of them will soon begin to fight, but then he takes it. Erik's grip is strong, and slightly forceful – it makes Steve bite back the urge to laugh.

"Captain Rogers," Erik replies smoothly.

"Glad to see we're all on such friendly terms," Lorna says dryly, and she takes Steve's hand – her grip is even tighter than her father's. "Call me _Ms Dane_ at your peril."

"Lorna," Steve says. "Call me Steve."

"What? No handshake for Remy?"

"We've met, like, twice," Steve says.

"Ah, time for a kiss then!" Steve leans in, kissing Remy on both his cheeks – the French way – and leans back. Awkwardly, Remy laughs. "Oh, cher. I like you."

"Erik," Loki says smoothly, and he catches Erik's hand in his own. In response to Erik's hard grip, he sets his left hand neatly over Erik's own, and Steve can see the slight stiffening of Erik's spine at the subtle act of control. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you. Charles speaks of you so continuously."

"I'm sure he does," Erik replies, visibly disarmed, and he says, "A pleasure to meet you as well… Done with your attempt at world domination, are you?"

"Oh, quite finished. And yourself?" Erik blinks. For a long few moments, he and Loki hold each other's gazes, each of their expressions cold and hard and holding a veneer of politeness, and then— Erik laughs. The sound is low, quiet, but undeniably genuine, and he sets his left hand gently on Loki's shoulder for just a moment.

"You really do have a silver tongue," he murmurs, and he neatly steps away, allowing Loki to introduce himself to Lorna. As Erik walks across the room, thanking Tommy for the cushion and moving slowly to his place at the head of the table, Steve watches as Pietro and Loki stand together. Although Pietro's speaking too fast for Steve to understand, and his lips moving too fast for Steve to read, he's apparently impressed, and Loki wraps his arm around Pietro's shoulder for a moment, pulling him close in a half-hug.

 _I'll sit between you_ , Loki murmurs, inaudibly, and Pietro nods his head.

At Wanda's instruction, they each move to stand at the table, and Steve watches as Pietro says a few words to Billy, catching the younger man's shoulder for a moment. Billy stands behind the chair beside Erik, with Teddy on his other side, and Loki sets his hands on the chair at Erik's left hand, gesturing for Steve to settle beside him. Steve is in between Loki and Pietro, then – that's fine.

They are standing for a reason. Steve lets the familiar sound of Hebrew wash over him as Pietro sings in easy, lilting Hebrew, reciting the kiddush over wine, and he watches as Pietro passes the silver cup to Lorna, who hesitates for a second before she takes a drink, than leaning to pass it to Billy, then to Erik.

When the blessing is over, each of them sits down, and Steve is amazed at the food Wanda's made – parcels of chicken stuffed with vegetables and spice; an incredible lentil stew; spinach pies made with thick, flaky pastry… It's good. It's all _incredible_.

And it's—

Funny.

With Pietro on one side of him, and Loki on the other, Steve is distinctly aware of how similar their table manners are, although Pietro (much like his nephew) eats much faster than Loki does. Each of them uses their cutlery with a delicate grace, always holding it _just so_ , and never dropping even a spot of food, never eating messily, always chewing with hyper-attentive grace and poise.

Erik notices Steve's stifled smile, and he follows Steve's gaze, looking between his son and Loki. Erik smiles himself.

"How are you occupying yourself these days, Loki?" Erik asks quietly. "I hear you have already drawn back from superheroism."

"I've applied for a lecturing position at NYU," Loki answers, taking a sip from his wine. "Honestly, they were rather excited merely to see my application, and I have some three hundred years' experience in academia, so all looks favourable."

"What would you be lecturing in?" Pietro asks, leaning forward.

"Oh, nothing too complicated. Applied astrophysics, theoretical mathematics, et cetera."

"Nothing complicated," Erik echoes, seeming amused. "How are you finding Earth?" Loki hesitates, seeming thoughtful. He draws his fingers through his hair, drawing it back over the shell of his ear, and Steve sees Erik's gaze flit to the bar of silver that is pinned through it.

"It isn't perfect," Loki says, his tone measured. "But I grow more grateful for my position as the days pass me by. Recently, I was reunited with three of my children, who I never thought I would be able to see again, and I feel most… Most _humbled_ , by my experiences on Earth."

"I saw the pictures," Billy says quietly. "On Facebook. You must have been so happy, to finally get them free."

"Oh, you have no idea," Loki whispers, his gaze momentarily far away. Steve reaches out, subtly taking Loki's hand where it rests in his lap, and Loki glances at him, offering him a very small, slow smile. "You will understand, I'm certain, when you have children of your own, Billy, but it's— It's an immeasurable love, truly, the love one feels for one's children."

"Unspeakable," Pietro agrees softly. "Ineffable."

"And hard," Erik says, finally. "One does one's best, and it never feels sufficient."

"Particularly when it isn't one's best," Pietro says archly.

"You would know," Erik replies.

"Okay," Billy says hurriedly. "Let's— Talk about something else."

"This bread is wonderful, Wanda," Erik says, carefully drawing another segment of the soda bread from the loaf for his stew.

"Pietro made it," Wanda says, helplessly.

"It's wonderful," Loki repeats, firmly. "You must give me the recipe, Pietro."

"And me," Erik says quietly, almost forcefully in its awkward warmth. Uncomfortably, Pietro shifts in the seat beside Steve, and only relaxes when Billy and Teddy draw Erik into an in-depth conversation about some recent scandal in the Israeli cabinet.

"You okay?" Steve asks quietly.

"I'm fine," Pietro says. Steve doesn't see him drink it, but his wine glass goes abruptly from full to half-full.

"Cher," Remy murmurs softly, and Steve sees him take Pietro's hand in his own, his fingers drawing easy and gentle over the back of Pietro's hand. Steve recalls, a few weeks back, when they'd all gone out to the Irish session, that Remy and Pietro had been out together, that the two of them had gone home together, but… For some reason, it only clicks that they're _together_ right now. They wear matching bands of titanium on their ring fingers, each fashioned to hold an Ⓧ wrought in the metal instead of a gemstone. They're subtle, simple, and they catch the shine of the candles…

Loki squeezes Steve's hand, and Steve brings his cold fingers to his mouth, touching his lips to the backs of his knuckles. It's strange, how comfortable he feels at this table: across from him, two young men content in a relationship, and then Pietro and Remy… Loki is staring at him, his lips parted, his eyes soft.

Steve feels himself shiver, and Loki turns away, joining the conversation with a snappy comment about the Israeli prime minister.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
08:44PM**

"Are you ever going to get married?" Erik demands.

"I've _been_ married," Pietro retorts. The two of them are standing chest to chest, and despite the slight lead Erik has in height, Pietro makes up for it by vibrating slightly, giving him an otherworldly and distinctly inhuman quality. Loki pretends to be listening to William, Theodore and Steve's incredibly boring conversation about heroic morality, and keeps the majority of his attention to Pietro and Erik.

"You know very well what I mean," Erik says. "You are _sixty-five_ years old, and you spend your days eternally alone – I only want for you to be happy, and—"

"Happy! Happy! That's _rich_ , coming from you – and what of Wanda?"

"Wanda has children."

"I have a daughter!"

"And where is she?" Loki hears Pietro's cut-off sound of desperate frustration. "Even Lorna has brought someone this evening, Pietro, and…"

"Remy isn't mine," Lorna calls dryly from across the room. She, Wanda, Tommy and Remy are gathered around a game of Monopoly, at which Wanda seems to be dominating. Remy is sweating, his skin shining with it, but all of the others – even Theodore – are concentratedly ignoring the argument occurring across the room, as if they don't hear the words being exchanged. It reminds Loki of his own childhood, arguing with his father as Mother and Thor said nothing, only ever interrupting if Loki began to cry, or if Father began to shout. "He's Pietro's." Loki turns to look at Pietro, who is as stiff as a board, his hands clenched into tight fists in front of his chest, and then he turns to look at Erik's face, which has fallen dramatically.

"Pietro," he says softly. "You might have _told_ me."

"Why should I tell you _anything_? You never ask. You have never once asked after my well-being, never once, not when Wanda and Lorna are right there! You give orders, and you pass judgement, but you don't care," Pietro says harshly. "What _should_ you care what—" Erik catches Pietro's hand by the wrist as he waves his hand emphatically in the air, and Pietro lets out a sharp noise, surprised at having been grabbed. Erik's eyes are not on Pietro's alarmed expression, however, but are instead levelled at the engagement ring on his finger.

"How long?" Erik asks quietly.

"Two months," Remy is slowly on his feet, the board left behind him – he has folded his cards and passed each of them to Wanda. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat, and although his skin has a shining glow to it, his red eyes ablaze with uncertainty, he doesn't back away from Erik. He stands beside Pietro, at his shoulder, and Loki can see the desperation in Erik's eyes.

"My son," Erik whispers.

"Don't call me that," Pietro says, nearly _shouts_. Erik _crumples_. For such a proud, broad-shouldered man, with such strength visible in him, it is most disarming to see, and Erik draws his hands back.

"Excuse me," he says, slightly hoarsely. "I must take a moment."

"Take an hour," Pietro mutters, and Loki sees the regret pass over his face as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Erik is already moving toward the door. Loki sees Wanda stand, but Loki raises his palm, moving to follow the other man himself, and he steps out of the apartment behind him, closing the door.

Erik is leaning heavily against the wall, gripping so tightly at the elbows of his suit jacket that his knuckles are turning white, and Loki conjures a chair for him with ease, gently pushing him to sit down. Erik drops heavily into the chair, his expression a mask of calm. His body shakes.

Loki reaches out, and he touches the arm of the chair: immediately, the two of them rest on a sea of thick, white cloud, a distance removed from New York and the confines of the apartment building, and Loki sees Erik look around, uncertainly.

"That we not be disturbed," Loki says simply. "He doesn't mean to be unkind to you – he is trying most fervently to let you into his life. I hope you realise that."

"I do," Erik says quietly. "You have children yourself?"

"Six, overall," Loki murmurs, then adds, "I've lost two."

"It's a terrible thing, to lose a child. The worst heartbreak imaginable." Loki can see from his expression that he speaks from experience, and he sees Erik's hand draw hard over his own lips. His piercing eyes are softened by the well of tears, and Loki offers him a handkerchief – one that Erik takes with a murmured word of thanks. "He thinks I don't love him. Do you know that? Do you know that he thinks I despise him?"

"He knows that you don't," Loki says quietly. It occurs to him how ironic it is that _he_ , of all people, should be offering such counsel, and yet— No. No, there is no irony here. Loki is as qualified as any to give advice upon this subject, and to listen to an individual in pain. "He merely believes that you look more kindly upon your daughters than you do him, and he is right to believe that, because it is true." Erik stiffens, his hands clenching into fists.

"It must be very difficult," Loki says, allowing his sympathy to weight heavily in his tone. "To look at such a stubborn, hard, and deeply unhappy man, and see your own reflection." Erik's composure breaks, and Loki watches in silence as a tear rolls down his cheek. He is breathing heavily, and he shakes his head, staring down at his own hands.

"Every time I meet him, I am made painfully aware of all that I have done to slight him, to harm him. It is so… _Difficult_ , to— He is so stubborn, and so biting, and so full to the brim with sarcasm, always with a sharp word on his tongue. He wears his pain as armour. I can't look at him and not feel agony. I have broken him so many times that he is made up of jagged edges, and now I have the gall to show the pain when he cuts me, as if it is _his_ fault, and not my own."

"You both have jagged edges," Loki murmurs softly. "Let us not pretend, for Pietro's sake, that you are a man without pain yourself." He reaches out, slowly, and he sets his hand very gently on Erik's shoulder, feeling the thick muscle beneath the fabric of his suit. "He loves you: he doesn't mean to be cruel to you. And vice versa."

"You really think that I love Lorna and Wanda more than him?" Erik asks, quietly. "He isn't— He has always been in need of discipline, of…" _Manliness_ , Loki supplies the end of the question – he knows not if Erik is conscious of what he means, but it cuts Loki to the bone nonetheless. Within him he feels a raging storm, a turmoil: without, he displays quiet calm, as the water's surface that hides a tumultuous current.

"I think you show your love for them in different ways," Loki answers. "And to show them the hilt of the blade whilst you show Pietro its sharp edge is unkind, regardless of your intentions." Erik sighs, quietly.

"When you phrase it in that way…" Erik glances at him, wiping hard at the tears in his eyes, and he says quietly, "For such a young man, you have a great deal of wisdom."

"I'm not a young man," Loki says quietly. "Much as you or your children, I am far older than I appear to be. Far, _far_ older, in my case."

"The silver in your ear… It's as if I can't feel it," Erik murmurs. "As if it is off-limits to me, somehow – as if it is _assur_. Wrong, forbidden." Loki's hand moves slowly up to the silver, and he feels its familiar cool beneath his fingers.

"You are just a magnekinetic," Loki murmurs. "You have a natural ability to bend metals, to shift their atomic structure, and so on. But silver-smithing is one of my facets, one of my godly areas of expertise. Silver doesn't just obey my command: it waits for it, eagerly, and runs through my very heart. For it to wait for your instruction, for it even to present itself to you, would be a confusion of my person, a blasphemy of my own self." Erik is staring at him, his eyes uncomprehending, and Loki loosely shrugs his shoulders. "That is the best way I can explain it," he says simply, and he sits down upon the air. "You don't touch him."

"What do you mean?" Erik asks, his expression uncertain, and Loki tilts his head slowly to the side, examining Erik's features.

"You never touch him. Don't you notice? You hug your daughters, kiss their cheeks; you put your hand on Tommy's shoulder or draw your hand through Billy's hair… The most you will do with Pietro is stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder." Erik leans back in his seat, his lips a thin line.

"He doesn't want me to touch him." He seems to believe it, and Loki feels his heart _ache_.

"Of course he does," Loki whispers. "You think he wants to stand there, awkward and alone, as you assure his sisters that they are loved, assure his nephews of your affection, even his daughter? You think he isolates himself because he truly prefers his life that way? Then this is less, even, than cruelty: it is foolishness." A long silence spans between them, and Loki looks out over the carpet of cloud they settle on, feeling its downy softness beneath their feet. "If I might make a suggestion?"

"Yes?" Erik asks, immediately – his tone is so eager.

"You ought speak to him of the Tanakh, and of the Talmud. He is confident of his faith where you are not, and it would be a comfortable neutral ground where you might speak upon your differences, whilst discovering your similarities."

"Do you spend much time together? You and Pietro?"

"We speak often," Loki murmurs. "It exhausts him, to spend so much time with those who cannot match his speed. I can understand him no matter how quickly he speaks, and that is very freeing for him, he who has so much to say, and so few who will listen."

"I don't listen to him enough," Erik says.

"No," Loki agrees. "You do not."

"It's very easy to talk to you," Erik says, almost suspiciously. "Why is that?"

"I'm a priest," Loki answers, his tone blunt and simple. Erik does not disbelieve him, or even question the answer: instead, he leans back in his seat slightly, and he looks Loki up and down, as if seeing him in a new light.

They talk for some time more.

 **August 3rd, 2012  
09:24PM**

The door opens, and Steve watches as Erik re-enters the room. Loki maintains his distance from Erik, neatly closing the door behind them, and Steve watches as Erik moves across the room, to where Pietro is sitting at the dinner table with Remy, speaking seriously and quietly, and a little faster than is natural for the human ear to process. Immediately, he is on his feet, his hands spread in front of him—

And Erik hugs him.

Pietro freezes, wide-eyed and confused as he feels his father's hands around his back, squeezing him tightly, and then he relaxes. Closing his eyes, he hugs Erik back just as tightly, and Steve looks to Lorna and Wanda, who are both open-mouthed and staring.

 _Well done_ , Wanda mouths to Loki, and Loki spreads his hands, as if to reply, _It was nothing_.

Loki slides down onto the sofa beside Steve, and Steve reaches up, dragging a loose strand of hair back from his face and tucking it behind his ear. Loki leans in, pressing their foreheads together for a moment, and then he draws away. "You okay?" Steve asks quietly.

"I think I offered good counsel," Loki murmurs. Steve smiles.

"Yeah, I bet," he agrees. "You didn't miss much."

 **August 3rd, 2012  
10:08PM**

Steve had been half-expecting Loki to make his excuses and head onto wherever he'd been before, but he doesn't. After they say their goodbyes to each of the Maximoffs – Pietro hugs Loki tightly before he goes, to everyone's great surprise – Loki walks back to the apartment with Steve, and slides into bed beside him.

"You're a good man," Steve murmurs quietly.

"No, I'm not," Loki says.

"You're trying, though." There is a pause, and Steve looks at the bare silhouette of Loki he can make out in the dark of the room.

"Yes," he says, finally.

Steve falls asleep with Loki's weight pleasant and cool upon his chest. He dreams that Erik Lehnsherr plays a game of Monopoly with Odin, and wins.


	29. The Chains We Break 7

**August 4th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York** **  
** **6:57AM**

Steve leans back with a quiet groan, and Loki's fingers dig a little more into his scalp, lathering the shampoo into the cropped-short hair. Hot water showers down on both of them, and Steve can't help but lean in whenever Loki's hands move over his body. He had been surprised when Loki had climbed into the shower after him – the guy says he hates them at any available opportunity – but Loki seems to be taking the time to concentrate on washing _Steve's_ body.

He brings the sponge dedicatedly over Steve's chest, scrubbing at the sweat from Steve's morning run, and Steve laughs a little at his concentrated expression.

"You've done this before," Steve says.

"I was an attendant to the gladiators on Exo," Loki murmurs. "For some thirty years."

"How old were you?"

"Quite young," Loki says mildly, dragging the sponge over the hollow of Steve's hip, and he can't help the way he bucks at the touch to the sensitive skin. "I was around one thousand years old… I was so scolded when I returned home to Asgard that on the very Bifrost I turned on my heel and went away again."

"Where did you go?"

"To Jötunheimr," Loki answers. As he drops slowly to his knees, beginning to drag the sponge over Steve's thighs, his gaze is momentarily far away. "I miscalculated the dimensional transitway – a spell to which I was new, and choked on – and landed in the freezing waters of the Jut sea. And there I saw her, standing as tall as…" The sponge stops on Steve's knee, and for a second, Loki is frozen, water washing over his back and through his wet hair, his expression slack. What must it be like for him, Steve wonders, to think of his wife? Two thousand years is a long time, but to be widowed is hard. _Damn_ hard. Then, he shakes his head, and says, "As I was saying, I attended the gladiators, ordinarily the champion at the time. I would clean their armour, run errands, serve them in the baths… In the bedchamber." Steve's breath hitches in his throat, and Loki looks up at him. The water runs in rivulets down the sides of his temples, dripping down his long nose, and he looks like one of the paintings they'd seen in the museum yesterday.

"The bedchamber?" Steve repeats. "You mean you…"

"Yes," Loki murmurs, and he drags the sponge in slow circles over the side of Steve's calf, and Steve swallows.

"But you didn't— You mean, like a hooker?" Loki laughs.

"No," he says, visibly amused. "No, no, like… Like a _consort_." Loki smiles with memory, and he chuckles quietly as his fingers dance up the back of Steve's calf, making him shiver. The skin is strangely sensitive, and he can feel the muscles there twitch as Loki touches them. "In the hierarchy of the arena, I was the highest-ranking member of the staff, barring the accountant and the quartermaster. I was looked upon with great admiration by the people – even by the aristocracy."

"But you… You had sex with them?" Loki nods. "Didn't that… Feel weird?"

"No," Loki says, shrugging his shoulders. "Sex is… It is a way of showing affection between lovers, yes, certainly. But it is both more and less than that. It is a resource; it is a service. It is an act of power, an unbalancing of dynamics, or a rebalancing. It is vital, for some species – they will die without it." Loki leans up, dragging his mouth over the side of Steve's thigh, and Steve inhales, feeling his shoulders hit against the cold tile. "It felt good," Loki murmurs. His fingers are cool against Steve's thighs, at odds with the hot water running over his hands, and Steve grunts as Loki presses his nose into the thatch of blond hair around his groin, his breath freezing where it ghosts over Steve's cock. "To be of service to a mighty warrior. To feel their muscles under my hands, to taste their skin once I had washed the blood and sweat and dirt away. To be _prized_ , and delighted in – a little softness after a hard day's play at war."

Loki's tongue flicks over the head of Steve's cock, and Steve groans, tangling his hand in Loki's hair. "Harder," Loki mutters, and Steve grips at it, so tightly he can see Loki gasp before he puts his mouth to work. He groans as Loki's lips part around the head of his cock, the flat of his tongue playing easily over the bundle of nerves at the base of his head, and he _sucks_. Steve can't help the way his hips stutter forward, and he hears Loki choke – immediately he tries to draw away, but Loki's hand locks around his wrist, and he looks at Steve with pleading eyes.

 _"I like that_ ," says a voice, seiðr-full and disembodied. _"You can be rough. Fuck my throat, if you want to."_ Steve hesitates. He and Loki have had rough sex before, but fucking him in the throat, feeling him _gag_ —

"You sure?"

" _Positive_." Steve stares down at Loki, his mouth spread open by the thickness of Steve's cock, and experimentally, he shifts his hips. Loki's expression slackens, and Steve feels his mouth as he leans in closer, his tongue cool against the base of Steve's cock as he tries to take a little bit more… He can't quite manage it. Two or three inches still remain, and Steve hesitates, just for a second—

And then he thrusts forward. Loki lets out a soft, hoarse groan, but he opens his mouth wider, relaxes his throat, taking Steve right to the root. Steve lets out a groan of sound at the cool wetness enveloping him, but most of all at Loki's face, his blue eyes fixed on Steve's. his lips stretched taut, and Loki _moans_. It's loud and genuine and sloppy, as if this is all Loki's ever wanted, and Steve grasps at his hair a little tighter, slowly drawing his hips back before snapping them forward. Loki looks like he might just _melt_ , whimpering around the prick in his mouth, his lips pressed right against the base of Steve's cock, and Steve starts to fuck his mouth.

It's weird. It's different to a blowjob, different to the sensation of the lips and tongue playing over the head of his cock as hands play over the shaft; it's different to actually _fucking_ Loki. He feels the difference between Loki's tongue and the swallow of his throat, feels his lips around the base of Steve's cock, and when he _thrusts_ , God, he can feel Loki desperately gag and gasp, see Loki's eyes watering, and see the shining _pleasure_ in his eyes—

Steve feels his balls draw up tight, feels his cock pulse, and Loki swallows greedily, like he's unwilling to spill even a _drop_. Steve can feel his throat working, and when Loki finally draws back, it's with a quiet exhalation, leaning into Steve's hand.

"How did that make you feel?" Steve asks, reflexively.

Loki laughs.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York** **  
** **7:22AM**

"What's the average Asgardian lifespan?" Steve asks. He tries to keep his tone casual, and Loki turns to look at him, his expression measured and thoughtful.

"Why do you ask?" he says, equally casually. As he speaks, he takes a slow sip of rich, dark coffee that he won't let himself enjoy too often – he says that he doesn't want to get too reliant on caffeine, but Steve suspects it's more to do with denying himself too much pleasure, something Loki tends not to admit to, but seems to do with nearly everything.

"Curiosity."

"Curiosity," Loki echoes. "Very well. The average Æsir lives for two hundred years, thereabouts. That lifespan is multiplied by a factor of around fifty with the introduction of the peculiar seiðr of Iðunn's golden orchard."

"Ten thousand years," Steve says softly. "Shit."

"Ten thousand years," Loki agrees.

"And you were… How old is an adult? How long were you a child?"

"We are considered adults when we reach our nine hundredth name day," Loki says. He is retaining that strange, mild tone, as if they are only talking about the weather. "The equivalent of _twenty_."

"So for every year of my childhood," Steve says quietly. "You were a child for forty-five." Loki stays very still for a long few moments, watching Steve with an uncertainty shining in his eyes, and Steve reaches up, dragging his palm over the side of his jaw. "That's not— I don't think it's weird. I think you kinda had enough time, growing up, feeling like you weird compared to everybody else. You're not weird just 'cause you're older. I don't think that you're… That you're strange, or creepy, or scary."

Loki looks genuinely touched. He steps closer, touching the side of Steve's shoulder and looking down at him where he sits at the kitchen table, and he says in a very soft voice – so soft Steve can barely hear it – "I don't think you're infallible. And I… In the most literal sense, you are _my captain_ , but you are not my commander. Outside of a mission setting, I will neither follow your orders nor blindly follow your command. I trust you. And because I trust you – I _vow_ to you – I shall make my disagreements known, when we run into them." Steve feels a heat tingle in his chest, and he puts his hand over Loki's. "I'm going to Mount Olympus today," Loki says.

"Mount Olympus?" Steve repeats. "Like—Greece?"

"Greece, yes."

"Can I come?" Loki hesitates, and for a moment Steve thinks he sees the slightest bit of fear, mingled with uncertainty… But why would he feel fear over something like this? What's frightening about Olympus that isn't frightening about Asgard?

"If you want to," Loki says.

"If I—" Steve cuts himself off to laugh. "Yeah, Loki. You're heading to a mythical place to meet mythical people, I kinda wanna come." Loki smiles, a little awkwardly, and Steve grabs him by the hip, pulling him closer. Loki lands heavily in Steve's lap, weighing down his thighs, and Steve sets his hands loosely on Loki's waist. "When are you gonna head to Jötunheimr?" Loki inhales slowly, as if taking the moment to fill his lungs entirely, and then he exhales, his resolve visibly strengthening.

"Tomorrow." Tomorrow? _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow, Loki is going to Jötunheimr… "I want to speak to Dionysus, and I would see Plouton before he returns to the underworld – he is usually above ground during August, helping his wife ready herself to leave."

"Plouton?" Steve repeats.

"You call him Hades," Loki says. Steve laughs a little, quietly. It's… Yeah. It's weird, sometimes, talking to Loki, wondering exactly what it could have been _like_ growing up on Asgard – it had been a beautiful city, but to be there for three thousand years? No wonder Loki had taken so much time to travel elsewhere. And then, even _weirder_ , to factor in that there are people like Hades – the real, actual, Ancient Greek Hades… That exist.

Yeah. That's—

That's something.

"You mentioned angels, the other day," Steve murmurs. "That— I didn't know angels were real."

"The realm of Heven is distant indeed," Loki murmurs, and he turns in Steve's lap, forming a three-dimensional diagram of shining, golden threads, letting the seiðr hover on the air. Steve recognises the familiar, disc-shaped world of Asgard, and he watches as the Yggdrasil forms roots and wide branches, the different planets and realms forming around it. Steve reaches out, and he touches the small globe of Jötunheimr. It is cold to the touch, and he shivers. "Once upon a time, there were not nine Realms, but ten." A planet swathed in mist and cloud forms at the very top of the tree, bathed in golden light.

"What happened?" Steve asks. His hand is on Loki's lower back, tracing his spine through the blue fabric of his shirt, but Loki doesn't seem to mind – he leans into it, enjoys it.

"Heven declared war upon Asgard. I know not the specifics – it was not so far into Odin's rule, and no one upon Asgard will speak of it except in the most hushed tones. I know of it from cobbled together snatches of conversation from elders of Nidavellir. Odin cast the realm of Heven from the natural flow of magic upon the Yggdrasil, and sent them unto the void." Loki seems sad, but in a distant way, and he turns to Steve, gently cupping his cheek. "I used to be so frightened that Thor would become like our father. Not in his magic, nor his cunning, but in his… He has such rage within him. It is the only emotion he knows how best to feel."

"Used to," Steve repeats. "He's better now, right?" Loki nods.

"But he isn't ready to be king yet," he decides. "Not by a long shot."

"Will he ever be ready?" Loki laughs, quietly, and then his eyes turn hard.

"I hope so. For his sake." It is one of the most truly ominous things Loki has ever said to him, and Steve is thrown into awareness as he had been when he had first seen Geren of the Highwastes: Loki is not human, is not mortal, is godly, and divine, and incalcuably _massive_ despite the body he inhabits.

"We should get ready to go," Steve says.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
8:15AM**

Loki stands before the mirror, his lips pressed loosely together, and he looks at his own face. He reaches up, touching the small beard that sprouts from his chin, and he takes in the brightness of his red hair, the way it comes in a thick wave about his head, curly and heavy, more so even than his own hair. His eyes are mismatched: one is bright green and the other brown, and the brown has a larger pupil than the other; Loki's nose is more hooked than before, and his chin is sharp and prominent, only emphasised by the beard.

"That's your god-face, right?" Steve asks. "The Loki-face?" Loki turns to look at him, and he feels himself smile. Is there a mortal, he wonders, that would pick up the language so easily, so swiftly? When even other immortals stumble over Loki's happenstance?

"Yes," Loki says. His voice is higher like this, harsh and chittering like the buzz of the cicada; Loki is taller, too, and Steve must look _up_ at his face. After a moment, Steve reaches up, and Loki feels the way his fingers trace the freckles smattered over his nose and his cheeks, then touch the dappled scars on the flesh.

"You're so warm," Steve murmurs, his nose wrinkling slightly, and Loki feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest – rearranged, now, so that it stands just beneath his breastbone, as an Æsir heart should. Steve looks unsettled, _uncomfortable_ with the idea of Loki as warm-blooded – could he truly have such affection for the cold blood that runs through his un-Æsir veins? Really?

Loki turns his head, and he presses a kiss to Steve's palm. Steve swallows. "Will they— You said that, uh, that the Æsir aren't really okay with, uh, with men… How are the Olympians?"

"They won't bat an eye," Loki promises. "Every god there is a pioneer of homosexuality." Steve laughs, and he reaches a little lower. Loki watches his face as he feels the brown fabric of Loki's robe, tracing over the hard, studded leather of his outer armour.

"Do you— It's weird. I know that it's you, and it _feels_ like you—" _Feels like?_ That's—That's interesting. Hm. "But, you know, it doesn't seem like it's the same as being a different _person_. Won't they recognise you, with your regular face?"

"Oh, they would recognise me," Loki says. "Thor and I visited Olympus many times as children. But as I first return to the mountain's sphere, I need them to look at me and recognise me as a fellow divinity, another god, not as one of the former princes of Asgard. Nor as the little boy that ran through Hephaestus' forge or watched Athene weave, that ever visited Olympus and never wanted to go home." Steve nods, slowly, and Loki glances at that which he has set on – a white shirt, crisp and clean, and a suit-jacket of deep blue to offset light-coloured trousers. No tie – it's better without a tie. Formal, easy. Loki looks at the chain around Steve's neck, the Statue of Liberty shining against his collarbone… "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Steve murmurs. Loki takes hold of Steve's hands, and he feels for the thread of seiðr, setting it precisely where he wishes it to be at the entrance of Mount Olympus, and he feels the universe shift around them.

The change of energy is immediately. He adjusts to Olympus' odd gravity, feeling it settle upon his skin, and then he releases Steve's hands, looking up to the blue skies above them. A sun shines brightly down on them, and glittering in the distance Loki can see stars on every side, shining like loops of silver where the edges of the blue sky darken to purple.

"Take my arm," Loki says, proffering it, and Steve hesitates for a second before looping his hand through Loki's elbow. They fall into step together, and Loki looks over the paths, taking in the orderly streets, neatly arranged, and the _temples_ … Loki likes the Greek temples. They are of mixed design, depending on the architecture each of the gods most favours, but Loki so loves the appearance of every one of them, so adores the shining white marble. "There is the Hall of Athene – therein lie the ancient archives, a library the like of which you've never witnessed."

"Bigger than your library?" Steve asks.

" _Much_ ," Loki says, and Steve chuckles. "And there, that is the Hall of Hephaestus. Whenever we visited Olympus, as children, I could rarely be torn from his side at the Forge. I've always loved forges." Loki leads them down a wide street, away from the main part of the city, and he can hear music and cheering – it is August, after all.

The Pantheon Hall – the greatest hall of Olympus, where each of the gods spends the majority of their time during festival and wonder, is absolutely gigantic, and it is rivalled only by the amphitheatre it adjoins. The amphitheatre, swarming with a hundred thousand people, but Loki can see the production is not to begin for another two hours at least – they are here to socialise, and there are no gods among them.

"Come," Loki murmurs, and they step toward Pantheon Hall, looking up the mighty steps of the great marble building.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **8:30AM**

Steve is kind of in awe.

The building itself is massive. Probably the biggest marble building he's ever seen – he's seen the Parthenon in Athens, and this building has to be nearly five times the size of it. It's obscenely huge, and for just a moment, he wonders if the Olympians are twice the size of humans and Æsir, just to make up for the space—

They're not. Many of them are tall, though: like Loki in his own god-form, many of them are closer to seven feet tall than to six feet, and it's incredible, looking around and seeing so many people who're easily so tall. They wear flowing chiffons, and Steve had vaguely expected everybody to be in plain white, but that isn't the case at all: the robes are made of all kinds of colours, bright and catching the light, in reds and pinks and oranges; in yellows and soft browns; in blues and greens and greys. It's incredible.

Steve wants to _paint_ it.

"My lady Hera," Loki says, and a woman turns. She wears a high, cylindrical crown of shining gold, and her dark hair cascades over her sun-kissed shoulders. She is easily a few inches taller than Loki, even in the form he inhabits, and her features are queenly and imperious: Steve can see the frown lines around her lips, but when her hazel eyes settle on Loki, they widen. "What a pleasure to see you, after so many years." Loki releases Steve momentarily to perform an artful, ridiculous bow, and Steve awkwardly bows his own head, uncertain as to the protocol.

" _Loki_ ," Hera says, and immediately, she comes forward. Steve watches as she hugs him, pressing kisses to both his cheeks, joy showing on her serious features, and she calls over Loki's shoulder, "Zeus!"

Zeus is a giant. He is easily eight feet tall at the shoulder, and he looks down at Loki with a bright grin on his face. He has a huge beard and long, white hair that is dappled in places with auburn, and he does as Hera did, grabbing Loki bodily and kissing each of his cheeks. Loki is smiling, and he takes a step back, setting his hand on Steve's shoulder.

"This is my consort, Steven Rogers: Captain America." Hera kisses him first, and her mouth is warm against the sides of his cheeks; Zeus is equally affectionate, and just like that, they're spanning the room.

The thing about the Asgardians… There hadn't been that many of them. Sure, there had been a decent group, but most of them were spread around, and only a handful, Steve had recognised. But the Olympians… There are dozens of them, dozens on dozens, and they all recognise Loki and greet him with kisses on the cheek. Some of them wind hands in his hair, catching errant curls of red and playing with them; others tug on his beard or pat his shoulders and hips; others sling their arms around his neck. The Æsir touch one another, but it's normally short and well-defined, unless two people are intimately involved, from what Thor can tell – the Olympians, they touch one another, and touch Loki, freely and with ease and warmth.

" _Consort_?" Steve asks in an undertone, as Loki points out a trio of hunting women. Loki hesitates for a moment, and Steve can see that he's holding something back: he grips Steve's arm the slightest bit harder.

"We're on their mountain: we use their language. Besides, mortals on Olympus— Brother," Loki says, interrupting himself, and Steve whips his head around to see Thor— But it isn't him. He's a young man, who looks like he's barely past his twenties. His skin is has a warm, golden undertone, but is a pale white, and he wears a yellow chiffon: on his head, there is a white cap with feathers sprouting from its sides, and his winged sandals are laced all the way up to his knee. He is a little shorter than Steve himself, his body lightly muscled and intended for gymnastics…

"Brother," Hermes replies. They don't kiss one another: instead, when Loki puts out his hand, Hermes grasps his forearm, as if the both of them are Æsir. They stand like so for nearly ten seconds, staring one another in the eyes, and then Hermes lets go. He turns his gaze on Steve, and Steve is astonished by the colour of his eyes: they are sky blue, but in the distance of his irises, Steve could swear he sees clouds passing by. "Captain America… I recall you. You're older than you look. We met in France, once."

"Did we?" Hermes smiles, and Steve can see Loki's eyes harden.

"I delivered you a letter," Hermes says warmly, and he takes a slow step forward, his lips quirking into a smile. The look in Loki's eyes is swiftly becoming dangerous, and Steve furrows his brow slightly.

"Thanks," Steve says shortly. Hermes doesn't take the hint, and he comes very close, until he's just half a foot away from Steve, looking up into his face.

"You're just as handsome as you were then," Hermes murmurs. "They should put you on stamps."

"They do," Loki says darkly. "Take a step back, Hermes, or learn which of us is a god of petty assault, and which is a god of death." Hermes freezes. Steve can see the look in his cloudy eyes, see the way his jaw twitches, see the way his lips twist. Loki looks at him with unabashed loathing in his eyes, and Steve takes the moment to walk past him, taking Loki's arm.

They walk across the room together, where a group of men and women are kneeling around a guy with a long, dark beard that is turning grey in paces, and long hair. On the crown of his head, some of his hair is beginning to thin, and he has eyes that are a dark, deep colour – they aren't brown. They're the colour of wine. He has a crown of grape leaves woven through his hair, and he is speaking at length, telling some story that holds his audience enraptured.

"What was that about?" Steve asks, quietly. "With Hermes? You called him brother."

"We are brothers," Loki mutters. "Tricksters, we host the same energy, we draw from the same pool – it is much like sharing blood. I draw from that pool threefold, but I am also… Wrong. Different. Unlike most tricksters, I have faces that thrive on order instead of chaos; I am just as effective amidst careful rule of order as I might be anarchy."

"Threefold," Steve repeats, and he tilts his head, thinking through the folders he had read through when Loki had received he had other… People. That he _was_ other people. And how many? Steve isn't certain. He's so many gods, but how many _people_? How many selves does Loki have holed up inside him? "So that's across Loki… Then Ixtar. And he – you – rights petty injustices. And Guril Yair, she's a trickster too, isn't she? She's a patron of thieves." Loki is smiling at him. It's a small smile, but there's a great deal of affection in it, and Steve can see the shine of mischief in Loki's mismatched eyes, distant, but growing. "What? You study me, I study you."

"I study you," Loki admits, freely. The bearded man finishes his story, and then he stands. His chiffon is a deep, dark purple, and he moves forward very slowly, looking at Loki with a quirk of his lips showing easy on his wine-stained lips. "Pretending yourself an elder, are you?"

"It is _not_ a pretense." The man's voice is dark and rich, coming from deep in his chest. His eyes turn to Steve, and immediately, they flit from Steve's face down the length of his chest, his legs, his shining shoes. "You're _beautiful_. What's he paying you?" Loki laughs, and he shoves the god in the chest: the man stumbles back slightly, and it's plain at a glance that Loki is far, _far_ stronger than he is, but there seems to be no bad blood about it. "My name is Dionysus, young man."

"Steve Rogers." He puts out a hand to shake, and Dionysus _scoffs_ before he leans in, kissing each of Steve's cheeks. Steve can smell the wine on him, but it's a distant undercurrent to the other scents – the scent of dry ground after rain, the scent of sex, a sweet, cologne-like scent, and distantly, beneath it all, the tang of blood.

Steve is breathless when he pulls back, and immediately, Dionysus leans into give Loki the same treatment – he doesn't stop after two kisses. Loki laughs when he plants a fourth, laughs harder when he tries the fifth, and on the sixth he pulls at a pin at Dionysus' shoulder: the chiffon drops in one easy movement, and Steve averts his eyes from the thatch of curly, dark hair between Dionysus' legs.

"You scoundrel," Dionysus proclaims, as if pronouncing Loki the winner of some unexpected challenge, and Loki draws away. "How long will you be here, brother?"

"Just a day. Tomorrow I sail to Jötunheimr." Something changes in Dionysus' face. His jolly charm fades and is replaced with a quiet understanding, a melancholy: he gently pats Loki's face, and Loki allows it. "You knew."

"I never _knew_. I suspected. I guessed you a Dökkálf, at first, but any of us could tell you weren't Æsir. Who are you here for?" Steve inhales, slowly, taking that in – _any of us_. What, all these people knew, just like the Asgardians had, that Loki was never Æsir? Christ, how many people were _keeping_ this secret?

"Plouton." Dionysus scoffs, quietly.

"Always Plouton. Never me."

"Always you as well," Loki promises, softly, and then he looks to Steve.

"Is he here? I don't— I don't see a guy that looks like he might be the god of the underworld, but I don't really know what they look like."

"Plouton is here but for twenty-one days of the year," Dionysus says. "The same twenty-one days, every time. And as he won't spend a single one of them with a roof over his head, not whilst he can help it. He won't even come inside for meals."

"He deserves some sunshine, while he has it."

"He takes sunshine with him whenever he descends once more," Dionysus mutters, and Loki exhales, quietly.

"I'll speak to you, later. I'll tell a story."

"Take that face off," Dionysus advises. "He's never liked it." Loki nods for Steve to follow him, and the two of them move off through another exit from the Pantheon Hall, out into a garden. In neat, well-kept rows, dozens of different sorts of fruit-bearing trees come high from the ground, and Steve looks at them with fascination. Cherries, oranges, apples, peaches, plums…

Steve watches as Loki's skin fades away. He shortens, and the freckles and scars fade away, their constellations giving way to smooth, white skin, and his hair dark. The silver glints at his ear, and Steve had been expecting a Midgardian suit, but instead, he takes on something more similar to what the Greeks are wearing: long, flowing robes of black, embroidered all over with swirls of shining blue fabric, the sleeves wide-cuffed and hanging down. The neckline _plunges_ , showing a strip of flesh that comes down to Loki's mid-chest, and Steve is spellbound as he sees the silver chain that hangs around his neck.

"I've not seen that one before."

"He gave it to me when I was a child," Loki murmurs, and he draws up the pendant, showing it. The coin is made of silver that is shined to a polish, and is thinner than Steve would expect, not so heavy – when Steve takes it in his hand, feeling the cool of the metal under his touch. The coin is set on one side with a figure of a man on a throne, his expression grim and grave. An open coffer of coin shows a great deal of money pouring on the ground beside him, and sat atop the pile is a dog with three heads, two of them sleeping and the other with a watchful eye on his master. When Steve turns the coin over, he is astonished to find that it is gold instead of silver. A woman smiles in a throne of her own, a bouquet of flowers in her lap, and he drags his thumb over the metal. "Are you familiar with the mythology? Of the coin? This is Charon's obol."

"It's… You pay the boatman, right? On the Styx, to get to the underworld?" Loki nods. "But you— You wouldn't go there, right? When you die?"

"I was a child," Loki murmurs. "The equivale—" Steve puts his hand on Loki's arm, and Loki stops himself, then smiles. "I was some years past my two hundred and fiftieth year. We had come toward the end of August, for three days, and I was so excited to see Plouton again that I sobbed when I realised he was leaving on the very day that we arrived. I clutched at Persephone's skirts, for I was frightened to cry in front of _Hades_ himself – although I adored him, even then, I was scared that like the men of Asgard, he would scold me for crying so easily. And Persephone lifted me in her arms, made me a crown of harvest wheat, and took me to Plouton, who was standing at the bridge, ready to go.

 _"He is crying,"_ she said. " _For the loss of you."_ I will never forget his face, in that moment. Hades is a hard man: he believes in the rule of order and the rule of law… It is why he so often has issues with Dionysus and Hermes each, for they will skirt any law they choose if it suits them, but I wasn't a god then, and certainly not a trickster – I was just a boy. He looked at me with shock and _surprise_ on his face, as if he couldn't believe a child was crying over him, and immediately he moved forward, opening his arms. He was cold to the touch, as cold as steel, and I hugged him as tightly as I dared, sobbing into the fabric of his himation.

" _Why are you crying, child?"_ he asked. _"I am not so far away."_

 _"But I could never visit you, where you are bound to go,"_ I replied. _"Even in death, I shall be set upon another path."_ And he stared down at me with some uncertainty – I was a very morbid child, desperately concerned with my own mortality, and I think that rather took him by surprise. So he held me against his side, and he crouched to the ground, his fingers to the earth, and the earth bore fruit for him: silver and gold each bled from the ground at his behest, and I was so fascinated at the way the metal moulded itself beneath his magic that I forgot to cry.

He pressed the obol into my hands, and he said, " _There. Now if you should ever visit me, you shall have payment for Charon."_

And I said, _"But the living must not tread in the realm of the dead."_

And he replied, " _Ah, but if you truly have need of me, if you come to my kingdom with no greed in your heart, and merely an ache to see an old friend, I shall forgive it all."_ My mother had it put on a chain for me, that I might wear it as I chose… I barely took it off, as a child."

"And you never used it," Steve says softly.

"He used it a hundred times," says a voice from behind them. Steve turns, and he looks at Plouton. Plouton is tall and broad-shouldered, only a few inches shorter than Zeus, and his skin is a rich, dark brown. In his dark eyes there are glints of silver. His beard is neatly combed, hanging in flowing, rich curls down toward his neck, and he wears silver around his neck and at his fingers. Steve leans back slightly when he sees him, taking in the shape of his robes, and distantly, he recalls Loki's memories of the Ancient-Loki, of the way he dresses… "There was nearly two months one winter when I could not tread in my own thronehall without tripping over his wold-be corpse."

"We never minded," says the woman beside him. Persephone is older than Steve had expected. In the myths, he's always heard her described as a young woman, but she isn't that young, not really – she's younger than Plouton, sure, but she looks like she's in her late thirties, early forties where Plouton has reached his sixties. In her dark, golden hair, a few threads of grey are beginning to show, and Loki moves to greet them both. Persephone kisses his cheeks, and Plouton puts his massive hands on either side of Loki's neck before he leans right down, their noses brushing together, their foreheads—

Steve smiles. He steps forward, slowly, and he looks up at Persephone as she steps closer to him. Flowers bloom in the grass where she walks, and when she touches Steve's shoulder, he feels as if he is standing in a patch of sunlight. "You must be Steven," she says softly. How does she know? "You're very handsome, young man. How find you Olympus?"

"Thank you, Ma'am," Steve says. It's the first time, it occurs to him, that anybody's asked him what he thinks of the world around him – the first time, actually, that somebody seems to have looked at him as a person instead of just a guy at Loki's side. "It's— It's beautiful. Nicer than Asgard." Plouton laughs, the sound rich and earthy.

"I like him, Loki," he murmurs, dragging his fingers through Loki's hair, slinging an easy hand over his shoulder, and Loki _smiles_ , leaning into the older man's side. "We heard that you went to Asgard with him, when he unchained his children."

"Yes, sir," Steve says.

"Were you frightened?" It occurs to Steve that that's a strange question to ask, and he leans back slightly. Persephone's hand is still a warm glow against his arm, and he considers the question as he looks between Plouton's serious expression, and Persephone's quietly indulgent smile – although whether she's indulging Steve or her husband, he can't tell.

"Sure, I guess," Steve says. "I didn't know what the Hell he was doing – he told me it was important, and I believed him." Plouton watches him for a long few moments, his grave features full of quiet comprehension, quiet understanding. When he smiles, this time, Steve can see the glint of silver in his mouth, where a few of his teeth have been capped in metal – and once again, he thinks of the Ancient-Loki.

"Persephone, my light," Plouton murmurs. "Take Steven inside. Loki and I have much to discuss."

Loki leans in, and he drags his lips over Steve's mouth: Steve is too surprised to draw away, leaning into the cool of Loki's tongue and the magic that sweeps from Loki's tongue to Steve's own, but when Loki draws away, his gaze is serious. "Stay close to Persephone, or Dionysus. Ares and Athene will delight in your company, too, if you wish it – you will know them by the armour they wear, but do not let either of them have you alone." There's an intensity in his eyes, the fear in full bloom now, and Steve furrows his brow.

"Stay away from Hermes too, right?" Steve asks. "He's dangerous."

"He—" Loki hesitates, and then he says, "They're _all_ dangerous. You're a mortal, that's… It's more complicated than on Asgard. You aren't a person to them: you are meat, chattel. You're a plaything, in their eyes. That is why I called you my _consort_ – it marks you as mine, marks you as something not to be touched, but it doesn't… It won't raise you to a _person_ , in their eyes." Steve feels a bitter taste on his tongue – it isn't fear, but anger, and distaste… He glances to Persephone, whose expression is serious. "Do not take bets, or wagers. If somebody says something you disagree with, do not challenge them, not unless they ask for your opinion – and even then, Steven, this is no place for your wit."

"So don't act like a person, then," Steve says, darkly. "Act like I'm just a handsome thing you own." Just like being in the army, before he got into the war – just like trailing from one dumb town to the next, to _thunderous_ applause. Loki recoils as if Steve has _struck_ him.

"Steven—"

"No," Loki says, interrupting Plouton before he can speak. Loki's expression is _tortured_ , and he bites down on his lower lip. "No, no, he's right. I oughtn't have brought you here. It's too dangerous. We should go. I'll take you back to Brooklyn, I shouldn't have… I'm sorry."

"I don't want to _go_ ," Steve says, catching Loki's hand. "Loki, this is… I'm angry that they think that way. But this is _Mount Olympus_. You have any idea how exciting that is for me? Can't I— Is there no way that I can just… Be normal? If I wore the uniform—"

"The uniform is just a uniform," Persephone murmurs. "Stay with me, Steven, or with Dionysus. We'll keep you safe."

"I don't like to be protected." Helplessly, Loki stares at him, uncertain.

"Would you rather die?" Plouton asks. Steve presses his lips together, and he squeezes Loki's hand.

"I'll be fine," he promises, and Loki slowly nods his head. Steve lets Persephone take his arm, and they walk slowly back to the entrance of the Pantheon Hall. Of course he was scared. Of _course_ he was scared, and— Steve had been excited. "He didn't want to hurt my feelings," Steve mutters. "He didn't want to tell me the truth, because he knew I'd hate it."

"Loki knows better than anyone how sweet deception can be, and how much the truth can hurt. Plouton never tells lies," Persephone murmurs quietly. "But sometimes, I wish he would." She brushes a strand of hair back from Steve's face, the motion quietly maternal, and Steve exhales, slowly. "He looks at you… It is rare that Loki shows such devotion. He is not like most men of Asgard, you know – most of them love freely, easily. Loki will devote himself to very few."

"I know," Steve murmurs. "I know. You know— You do know, right? That he's not of Asgard, anymore?"

"Hermes brought the news as soon as he had wind of it," Persephone says softly. "Loki… He has withstood the likes of which most Olympians could never dream of in their wildest nightmares. He's well-liked here."

"But not as well liked as Thor?" Persephone's smile is sad.

"Perhaps not," she agrees quietly. "But Loki has his friends here. Dio would die for him— Well, I suppose that means little coming from him: he is ever and anon a figure of rebirth, dying and returning to life. But there is very little Dionysus wouldn't do for him, or vice versa. And he was always welcome in Hades, always… Hephaestus has a soft spot for Loki as well, and Aphrodite loves him for loving her husband. It was very hard for him, as a boy. He never knew what made him so different to the Æsir, and many of us _knew_ , but… It wasn't our secret to tell. To tell him would have been to dash his dreams to pieces."

"You said he doesn't lie. Plouton. Didn't he know the secret too?" Persephone's soft smile says it all.

"There are few rules Plouton wouldn't bend for Loki's sake," Persephone murmurs quietly. "And there are few rules Loki wouldn't follow if Plouton asked him. He begged us to adopt him a thousand times."

"What happened?" Steve asks softly.

"He accepted his fate," Persephone answers. "When the future pains started, when he began to bleed at night around his mouth and lips, when he began to have nightmares of the future that taunted him every night… He stopped visiting us, coming into Hades and bribing the dog on the way in. He went elsewhere, instead – he went places where no one knew him, and he could pretend he was someone else, until he became someone else. He visited Olympus one day in spring time… He couldn't have been more than six hundred. He was still a boy, not even on the cusp of manhood, and he was so stiff and formal. His illusion slipped, and I caught a glimpse of the marks on his mouth, and of that awful acid spatter at his eyes… It was awful, you know, when he decided… When he decided to give into destiny. He stopped weaving, he stopped painting. He used to garden, I used to teach him to… He let all the flowers die." Persephone sighs, and a summer breeze catches the back of Steve's neck, warm and gentle.

"He's free now," Steve says quietly. "Of destiny, I mean."

"No, he isn't," Persephone murmurs, her eyes full of grief, and Steve feels like his chest has been doused with freezing water. "It's just different now."

 **August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **9:22AM**

"You oughtn't have lied to him," Plouton says quietly.

"I know," Loki says.

"I oughtn't have lied to you," Plouton adds. "How many times did you sit before me, and beg me to tell you, if I knew, why you fit so ill with Asgard?"

"I wouldn't have believed you," Loki offers. "If you'd told me."

"If I told you the moon was a marble on a string, you would have believed me," Plouton replies. "You would have believed anything, if I'd told it to you."

"It's too late now," Loki says. "All will be well. I will be going to Jötunheimr, tomorrow." He keeps his chin high where they walk together, and he doesn't look at the elder god beside him, refuses to look at Plouton's serious expression.

"You think they will execute you," Plouton says, frankly.

"They will try. They cannot succeed, if I do not allow it."

"Will you?" Loki heaves in a gasp, and he tries to keep himself from crying.

"No," he promises. "No, I won't."


	30. The Chains We Break 8

**August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **9:25AM**

"You wish to ask for advice?" Plouton asks quietly. His hands are loosely looped together over his belly, and Loki stands on his own, his lips pressed tightly together. Plouton is not a talkative man – for most of the year, he spends his time listening, rarely speaking. He listens to Persephone talk or sing; he listens to the subjects of Hades; he listens to his siblings speak on one matter or the next.

All that silence has made him perceptive.

Too perceptive.

"I wish to be convinced to do something else," Loki mutters. He inhales slowly, tapping his fingers against his thighs, and he looks about at the garden. As ever, the trees grow high and healthy, and he recalls taking a cutting or two home when he was as yet a child, growing Olympian peaches on his balcony…

Those plants are all dead now – long dead.

"I'm not adept at convincing others," Plouton murmurs, and he reaches out. Loki allows him to drag his fingers over Loki's hair, the touch gentle despite Plouton's large hands. "Loki… Don't you want to go?"

"Of course I want to—" Loki cuts himself off, gritting his teeth together. "I have no idea how many of them were killed, in the incident with the Bifrost. I don't know if King Laufey yet lives, even."

"King Laufey lives," Plouton says quietly, and a small fragment of Loki's anxiety is soothed. A tiny part. "He does not know who you _are_. Does he know that you're a Jötunn, even?" Loki crosses his arms tightly over his chest, and he sets his jaw. "You fear that they would reject you, but how could they do anything _less_ if you do not go?"

"You know what is to happen next," Loki says, and he doesn't mean for his tone to be as _accusative_ as it is. Plouton leans back, arching his eyebrows slightly and giving Loki a _cool_ stare, and Loki inhales.

"You have cast off the shackles of one destiny," Plouton says in a measured tone. "It would be silly of you to panic over potential destinies to come. The worst they can do, Loki, is refuse you – and then you can simply go home, to Steven."

"I feel that I go to three different men for advice a week," Loki mutters. "My very mind is a nest of snakes."

"It usually is," Plouton says. "So why don't you ask me about what you _truly_ wish to ask me of?" Loki turns to look at him, his jaw set, and Plouton smiles thinly. "I know you, boy." Loki sighs, putting his head in his hands, and he sinks slowly down onto a stone.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **10:02AM**

"There he is," Persephone murmurs, turning back to pat his shoulder, and Steve glances to Loki in the doorway. Loki looks distracted and anxious, and immediately, Steve gets to his feet, but Loki smiles when he sees him – if weakly. He moves across the room, closer, and Steve offers his glass. Gratefully, Loki takes a few gulps of the thick, blood-red wine – the stuff is _strong_ , even though it's been watered down a great deal.

"You alright?" Steve asks, setting a hand gently on Loki's hip. He can feel eyes on them, feel some of the gods watching what Steve is doing, and he feels some of the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, wondering if they're thinking he's overstepping his bounds as a _mortal_ …

"I'm fine. I asked him a question, and he wouldn't give me an answer, which leads me to believe…" Loki trails off, bringing his fingers to his lips and dragging away a slight, purple stain. "It is not of mortal concern," Loki says, loud enough for people to hear, and then adds, in an undertone, "I would tell you later."

Steve nods his head, and Loki winds his arms around Steve's neck. Steve lets out a short noise of surprise, gasping as he feels Loki's lips drag over his neck, a flush coming to his cheeks and the back of his neck. He's embarrassed, but he doesn't push Loki away, and Loki asks, "Are _you_ alright?"

Oh, _right_. It's a pretence. Yeah, Steve can work with that, embarrassment aside.

"Yeah," Steve mutters, and he makes a show of arching his back slightly, his eyes fluttering closed as Loki nips at the side of his neck. "I was just talking to a guy, uh… Aristaeus? Is he a god? He doesn't look like a god." That's why Steve had been relatively comfortable speaking to him, though the guy had been eccentric to say the least. "He opened the conversation with, _Ah, a mortal!_ and sat down. Then he demanded how I felt about the bees dying."

"What did you say?" Loki asks.

"I said I didn't know the bees were dying, and he gave me a whole spiel. He doesn't feel exactly the same as like… Persephone, or you." Loki leans back suddenly, looking at Steve for a second, and studying Steve's face, but it's _true_. There's a kind of particularity to Loki's— Steve would call it an aura, maybe, if he was more into that kind of stuff. He'd just call it instinct, the stuff he feels when his head is turned away: Loki feels _huge_ compared to most of the people in this room, and Steve is relatively certain that if he closed his eyes he'd still be able to pick Loki out of the crowd. Loki is staring at him, and Steve asks, "So, is he?" Loki seems to realise himself, and brings his mouth to the lower part of Steve's jaw.

"He's a minor god," Loki answers. "He's a little bit… Odd. He's Apollo's second son. Or first one. I always get Asclepius and Aristaeus mixed up, if I'm entirely honest." Steve glances across the room, over Loki's shoulder, to Aristaeus, who is a shaggy, bearded man that smells thickly of honey. He wears a shawl of multicoloured wool despite the warm weather, and there are scars up to his bare mid-elbow and on his messily sandaled feet. He then turns his head to look at the guy Aristaeus had pointed out as his brother – a neat, orderly man in a light grey chiton, leaning heavily on his staff and speaking at length to a quartet of younger women – his daughters, Steve guesses.

" _How_?" Steve asks. Loki laughs, drawing back.

"Their energy is similar, let's say," Loki says, and he takes Steve's hands. "No one else spoke to you?"

"No, I sat next to Persephone, and she was talking to a girl that's, uh, she's not really wearing much?"

"Honestly, that describes many of the people here," Loki points out, and Steve laughs.

"Yeah, but I guess, you know, 'cause I was just sat with them, no one else really came over. Persephone gave Aristaeus the nod, though, so I figured he was fine. You're, uh, you're kinda popular, huh?"

"I'm powerful," Loki says softly. "That's not the same thing." Steve laughs, and he gestures for Loki to come with him toward the wine. He lets Loki pour it, not trusting himself with the ridiculous size of the vessel.

"No, you're _popular_ ," Steve repeats, glancing around the room. On Asgard, people had looked at Loki with fear and disgust, with irritation, with uncertainty. Even the people that didn't have an outright negative reaction had wrinkled their noses as they saw him pass, or their lips had twitched into momentary frowns. The Olympians _smile_ to see him, many of them nudging one another and pointing across the room, as if to say, _Look who's here!_ "They actually seem to like you, believe it or not."

"Well, they're all very old," Loki says disapprovingly. "They ought know better. Here." Steve takes the cup, holding it to his belly, and Loki adds, "It's good, that you're drinking. They'll put more— They'll respect you more."

"Thanks," Steve mutters, bitterly, and when Loki looks at him with alarm, he shakes his head, putting his hand on Loki's shoulder. "No, I'm not… It's not your fault. You don't think of me like that, do you? Like I'm _just a mortal_?"

"There's an awareness of the difference between us," Loki allows, but then he shrugs his shoulders. "But they… It's different entirely. We, some of us Æsir and Vanir, we were _elevated_ to godhood. It started with Odin's grandparents, and then we were woven into the tapestry of belief as each of us went down to Midgard, earning our place in their pantheon. That is why so many of the stories on Midgard differ from how things actually are: because we were added in strange orders, in odd contexts, piece by piece, and elevated as the stories travelled, either fast or slow. But the Olympians… Everybody you see here was _born_ into their godhood, their deification, even Zeus. To them, _belief_ isn't the most important thing: instead, they respect bloodlines, and they respect title. Mortals, in their eyes, could never comprehend life as they see it – but the fact of the matter, in my view, is that anybody can be elevated to deity, under the right set of circumstances. A mortal need not have a deity for a parent: they need only be primed for magic, and to be in the right place at the right time." Steve thinks about it, just for a second – _even a mortal_. He can just imagine Tony Stark accidentally stumbling into being a god on some weird planet, completely by accident… It's the sort of stuff that happens to that guy all the time.

"What's your favourite, of the ones you're a part of?" Steve asks quietly, and Loki glances at him, evidently uncertain as to what he's asking. "Of the, um, the pantheons. Loki aside, given that that's complicated, now."

"You ask such strange questions," Loki murmurs, but he says it with such fondness that Steve is taken aback. A warmth shines in his eyes, gently burning, and then he says, "The Leians are my favourite, I suppose. To them, I am the youngest of a thousand brothers. The story goes that all of the eggs hatched, one-by-one, and each of the gods came forth. And one by one, they were given their talents. To Laskey, the eldest, went domain over the planet of Faro; to the second eldest, Brit, went the domain of the sun; and to the third eldest, to Eshk, went the domain of the stars in the sky. Many were given domains over the skies, or the waters, or the trees or birds or animals; others still were given domain over truth, and love, and justice, and liberty! One by one, the brothers lined up, and each of them received their domain from the great father and mother.

"But then, the next day, as the planet of Faro began to work its way beneath this new order, better than ever before, a final egg – the last egg – hatched! And forth came Aspling, the youngest, with shining gold skin. And the great father held him in his arms and wept, for there were no good things left to bestow upon him… But he was struck by Flos, deity of _inspiration_ , and so they gave Aspling domain over the telling of stories. That way, he could experience the strength of every one of his brothers, for he could weave tales of every one of them, and thus be the best of them – for what is a man's deeds, if there is no one to tell of them?" Loki's smile is soft and fond, and Steve watches him as he takes a slow sip of his wine.

"It must feel good," Steve says. "To be the favourite for once."

"It does," Loki agrees.

"My son _said_ you'd brought a mortal with you," says a low, lilting voice, and Steve turns. The man is tall and broad shouldered, muscle thick on his body, and his skin is a rich, deep black that shines with golden glitter. He has natural hair that forms a halo around his head, and his eyes are _golden_. "He's lovely."

"Thanks," Steve says drly, and the guy's lip twitches: immediately, Loki's hand slips around Steve's hip, squeezing _._ _This is no place for your wit_. "I'm Steve Rogers," he says, bringing the glass up in a modest toast. The guy reaches out, looking to take Steve's chin, but Loki catches his wrist before he can, and he interlinks their fingers to prevent him from getting further into Steve's space.

The man _gasps_ , staring at the place where his hand touches Loki's. "So cold," he says softly.

"My true blood, now," Loki says. "What see you in my future, Apollo?" Apollo's beautiful face shifts, and it's like the gold in his eyes is swirling, like glitter in a glass of water. His lips part, showing the gap in his front teeth, and his tongue touches against his lower lip.

"You'll be a father, like you always wanted," Apollo says softly. "In the end." Loki frowns, leaning back slightly, and Steve can see the utter confusion on his face.

"I am a father," Loki says. Apollo chuckles, and he draws his hand away, but not before admiring the black paint on Loki's fingernails, tapping his thumb against Loki's index finger. That's the way the oracle works, Steve knows – he knows a lot of the stories of the oracle at Delphi, knows that the prophecies are always cryptic, always impossible to understand until after whatever happens has transpired.

"Do they have to be cryptic?" Steve asks quietly. Apollo looks at him, slowly. "The prophecies – is that like, one of the rules? Because it can't be the magic itself that makes it that way, or it would be the same rules from one kind of divination to the next one." Apollo laughs, and the sound is like distant music, impossibly beautiful and with an echoing quality.

"It isn't a _rule_ , per se," Apollo says softly. "But there is a sense of balance that must be maintained, a sense of order. Give me your hand." Steve glances to Loki, who hesitates before marginally nodding his head, and Steve reaches out with his left hand, letting Apollo take it. Surprise shows in Apollo's face, his eyes widening, and he stares down at Steve's hand, flinching away for just a second before forcing himself to remain in place. His fingers are very warm against Steve's own, hot enough that they'd _burn_ , if Apollo wanted them to. "But you understand balance – or you will. Loki will teach you."

"I will?" Is this a prediction, or not? Steve can't really tell. Apollo is deathly serious, but it seems like something's changed in the way he's looking at Steve, as if somehow Steve's been raised a little in his estimations… What could he possibly do, that would make Apollo look at him with that kind of respect? Loki is even paler than usual, and his grip on Steve's hip is tight.

"Yes… Balance. _Order_. Justice." Apollo stares at Steve's face as if he's studying it, taking in the shape of his eyes and his mouth, his nose, his chin. He looks at Steve as if Steve is a puzzle he can't figure out yet, as if there's something hiding just under his skin that Apollo wants to dig out. "Were I to simply say outright what the future were to hold, definitively, it would alter that future. You would attempt to change it, or embrace it. Unless you are meant to _have_ the knowledge, to give it to you would damage destiny itself."

"Do you have future pains?" Steve asks. Apollo smiles: he seems _impressed_ , and he gives Loki a look, his eyebrows raising, as if to say he approves.

"Do you?" Apollo asks., and Steve frowns. He draws his hand back, and Steve stares down at his own hand, seeing the golden glitter that sticks to the skin. "Why is it you always, uh, offer to tell a story for Dio, Loki, but you'll never sing a song for me?"

"I'll sing a song for you," Loki says casually. Apollo watches him, as if waiting for a punchline: Loki keeps his expression completely neutral, staring Apollo down, and Apollo's lips part open.

"You can't _sing_ ," he says, almost indignantly.

"Can't I?" Loki says.

"You've never— Three thousand years, and I've never heard you sing!" Loki shrugs his shoulders.

"Things are different now," he says. Apollo's gaze lands on Steve.

"You're telling me," he murmurs, and then he gestures for Loki and Steve to follow him.

Loki makes to take his hand off Steve's hip, but Steve's hand claps down over it, keeping it in place, and he hears Loki's quiet sigh of surprise. Apollo has drawn other people's attention toward them, and people are now looking right at _Steve_ , their eyes roaming over his body instead of just looking at him and glancing away. Shifting slightly, Loki keeps his hand in place, and they move forward together. Like meat, like chattel – yeah, that's how Steve feels right about now.

The thing about being Captain America, in the first instance, was that he was still the most powerful guy in the room. Here? He _definitely_ isn't.

He slides easily into the seat beside Loki, and he watches as Apollo sets his hands flat, light pouring from his strong palms, and it reconstitutes itself as a lyre. The lyre is beautiful – carefully woven wood, painted gold, forms its body, and the strings seem like they're made of pure light.

"Oh, _Apollo_ ," chides Dionysus, and Steve feels one of his hands against his shoulder as he looks over the bench Steve is sitting on, looking at his brother. Dionysus' hand is broad and calloused all over, worked hard working on grapevines. "It's so _early_ – are you really going to sing for us already?"

"No," Apollo says. "Loki is." Steve glances up to Dionysus, whose eyes are wide with surprise, his wine-stained lips parted, and as Loki slides to sit beside Apollo, gently taking the lyre in his lap, he leans in.

"Is he serious?" Dionysus asks quietly. "Can he— Can Loki sing?"

"Yeah," Steve says.

"He's never sung before."

"He has," Steve says. "He's good." Dionysus hops over the bench and sits next to Steve, _frowning_ at him. His dark brows are furrowed, and he examines Steve with obvious curiosity, his hands loosely between his thighs.

"You, you're… _Ooh_ , you're something." He gestures to Steve's hand. "May I?" Steve hesitates, but then he offers it, and Dionysus takes it in his own, turning it over so that he can examine Steve's palm. Smiling, he drags one finger up the length of Steve's palm, through the centre. "You know what this line is called? You know palmistry?"

"No," Steve says. Hasn't he had enough of divination from Apollo? But— Dionysus isn't a figure of divining, even. What does _he_ know about it?

"It's common not to have a line here at all – this is the fate line. Fate _lines_ , in your case – you've got two." He taps the base of the two lines that run through the centre of his palm, and then he _smiles_ , dazzlingly bright. He has tattoos all over the brawny flesh of his arms, depicting slowly shifting grape leaves that seem to move on his skin, like they're being shifted by some invisible wind. "But you know something _really_ interesting?"

"What?"

"You're growing a third one." Steve stares down at his hand, and he looks at the two parallel creases in his palm, at the way they drag over the skin there. Frowning, he looks from his palm to Dionysus, who is grinning. "Just kidding," he says sweetly, and he releases Steve's hand. There's something frozen in Dionysus' deep eyes, just for a moment, and then it fades away, replaced by apparent warmth.

Loki is sitting with the lyre neatly upon his lap, allowing it to rest in toward his shoulder. When they'd been travelling a few weeks back, with Hel – on Rigel IV, maybe – Loki had played a harp one night, playing a long and mournful melody before giving the harp over to Hel. She'd played a wonderful tune, all interlocking melodies and harmonies…

The lyre is so much smaller. Loki's slender fingers look good against the gold-painted wood and the fine, golden strings, and he looks… At ease. Steve smiles to see him so relaxed, even as people turn to look at him, scrutiny landing on his features. He can hear people murmuring in surprise, a few people expressing uncertainty that Loki even knows how to play, but then Loki's hands are moving slow upon the strings, and music fills the air, sweet and slow and full of easy melody.

The circle of bare floor in front of Loki, around which the benches are arranged in a rough semi-circle, is suddenly bathed in light, and Steve's mouth falls open as the illusion forms in the air. It's beautiful, a garden of thick, luscious green, flowers blooming from bushes and trees and vines heavy with fruit, and Steve can even _smell_ it – smell the flowers on the air, smell the pollen that tickles his nose.

All eyes go to Loki, and he smiles as he begins to sing. His voice is low and soft, but there's a richness to it, a _deepness_ that comes from low in his chest and rings with resonance throughout the room, and Steve can feel his breath catch in his throat.

" _Heavy and hard is the heart of the king,  
King of iron, king of steel,  
The heart of a king who loves everything  
Like the hammer loves the nail…"_

There is a figure in the middle of the garden, tall and dark in colour –the garden is made up of magic-vibrant greens and bright colours, yellows and whites and pinks, but he is made in deep, dark grey, his himation brushing against the ground. Where it touches the illusion's floor, it leaves a trail of dead grass, and Steve hears Dionysus sigh softly beside him, reaching out and running his fingers through the seiðr gathered on the air, and it sticks to his fingers.

 _"But the heart of a man is a simple one  
Small and soft, flesh and blood  
And all that it loves is a woman  
A woman is all that it loves_

 _And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword  
He covers the world in the colour of rust  
He scrapes the sky and scars the earth  
And he comes down heavy and hard on us…"_

The illusion-Hades is staring, his black eyes focused on a figure of Persephone that _blooms_ into being, golden-skinned and smiling where she cups flowers in her hands, and where she moves over the grass, in parody of Hades' step, flowers bloom. It's beautiful, the way the illusion forms, the vision of it swimming slightly before Steve's vision, and he glances around the room. Zeus and Hera are standing together, Hera leaning against Zeus' side as she watches the beautiful shift of the illusion on the air; Aristaeus and Asclepius stand together, their children standing about them and watching with them; Hermes has a sour expression on his face…

Apollo's eyes are on Loki. He looks right past the illusion, and his gaze settles on Loki's face, occasionally flitting down to his hands. It's a strange focus, _unnaturally_ concentrated, and Steve feels the godliness in his stance and in the shape of his eyes, even from across the room.

The strong, thin line of Hades' lips shifts, and they part in genuine awe.

" _But even that hardest of hearts unhardened  
Suddenly, when he saw her there  
Persephone in her mother's garden  
The sun on her shoulders, the wind in her hair…"_

The real Persephone is enchanted, standing just inches away from her magical double, and Steven can see how young Persephone is in the illusion – she looks like she's into her mid to late twenties, her skin unlined, and she looks at the flowers she reaches for as if they're the most precious things she's ever seen.

" _The smell of the flowers she held in her hand  
And the pollen that fell from her fingertips—"_

Steve's mouth drops open at the way the pollen drips in golden dust from the dream-Persephone's artful fingers, and he realises that Plouton has come inside. He stands in the doorway of the Pantheon Hall, his mouth ajar. There is such feeling in Loki's voice, such warmth and sweet _love_ , and Steve can feel the pound of his heart in his chest, his mouth dry, to hear Loki sing with so much feeling.

" _And suddenly Hades was only a man  
With the taste of nectar upon his lips  
Singing la la la la la la la—"_

Loki nods to Apollo, and he sings back the response, his voice lilting and ethereal, the most beautiful thing Steve's ever heard, and Steve watches Apollo's uncertain smile as he and Loki sing back and forth to one another, until they trail off into harmony, then silence.

Nobody claps.

Everyone stares at Loki as the illusion fades into seiðr-thick dust, and after a few seconds of the staring, Loki's confident, easy smile falters. He shifts the lyre on his knee, a little anxiety creeping into his expression, and Steve can see the apple of his throat bob under the skin.

"Could you always play?" demands a young woman with deep brown eyes and a cascade of dark hair ("Hedone," Loki explains later, "She's a daughter of Eros – from her comes the concept of _hedonism."_ ), and she is effortlessly beautiful, constellations of freckles forming on the golden brown of her skin. "Could you always play, just like that, and the— The illusions too?" Loki nods. "You monster," she says. "You have deprived us all." It is said so frankly that for a second, Steve can see Loki's face fall even further, but then he sees the shift, the understanding, the way his lips quirk slow into a smile—

And the spell is broken.

Apollo is laughing as he drags Loki into his _lap_ , grabbing at his hip and cupping his jaw and pressing a kiss onto his chin; people are noticing that Plouton – after how long, how many millennia? – is _inside_ the Pantheon Hall, standing behind Persephone with his hands around her waist; people are laughing together, talking, and it's more than _affection_ for Loki now. There's something else. Respect, maybe, or something bigger than that, even.

Steve glances to Dionysus, who has tears in his eyes, and he puts his hand on Dionysus' shoulder. Dionysus laughs shakily, and he reaches up, dabbing at his eyes with two broad, strong fingers, exhaling. "He's beautiful, isn't he?" Dionysus asks him, and it isn't a challenge, isn't a declaration of something – Steve can't quite get the rhythm of it, but the gods are _different_ with each other than they would be with mortals. They're not just people, they're forces of nature, all existing together at once… It's terrifying. It's wonderful.

"Yeah," Steve agrees softly. "He is."

 **August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **12:37PM**

Loki watches Steve eat, and he smiles, just slightly. His chin is rested on the backs of his hands, and he watches as Steve takes up a piece of bread packed with baked feta, oregano and red pepper, and eats it readily, listening intently to a story that Dionysus is telling, complete with ridiculous hand movements and gestures.

Steve is slightly out of it. Loki can see the slight defocus of his eyes, the way that he sways a little in his seat, and it isn't from the wine: Steve's been careful not to drink too much. No, no, it's from being an mortal on Olympus, surrounded by ineffable energies, filled to the _brim_ with it…

From across the table, Apollo pushes a chalice into his hand, and at the sweet scent from within, Loki wrinkles his nose, and leans away from it.

"I don't need it," Loki mutters.

"What is it?" Steve asks, his eyes alight, and Loki almost laughs – he isn't a greedy man, but he's never eaten food like _this_ before, it seems, and he is taken away by Dionysus' energy, given unnatural appetites by the swirl of energies around him, hyperbolic, emphatic, easily.

"It's not for you," Dionysus says firmly, taking the chalice and taking a long drink from it, but Steve is emboldened… There's a slight distance in his eyes, and Loki is careful to keep an eye on it as Steve takes the chalice, bringing it down to the surface of the table and peering inside, at the golden liquid within. Loki watches those superhuman nostrils dilate as he inhales, taking in the scent, and then he sees the slight tilt of Steve's head, sees him _concentrate_.

"What does it feel like?" Loki asks softly.

"It—" Dionysus starts, but Loki slaps a hand to his chest, stopping him from speaking.

"No, I asked _him_ ," Loki says firmly, and he watches as Steve inhales the scent of the ambrosia once more, takes in the smell of the drink of the gods. It isn't the same as the fruit of Iðunn's garden, that which Loki was raised upon – this is an ancient secret of the Olympians, long-held and long-cultivated, that turns blood to ichor in one's veins.

"It's like… Sunshine, bottled up. It feels _warm_."

"It's cold," Apollo says. "It doesn't feel warm."

"He means the energy," Loki says softly. "The energy feels warm."

"Yeah," Steve says. Loki meets the gaze of Apollo and Dionysus each: both of them have understanding in their eyes, a dreadful understanding, and Loki cheerfully ignores it. "Can I have some?" Dionysus' expression changes, and he slowly shakes his head.

"No, pass it here—"

"No, no," Apollo purrs, his hand alighting on the edge of Steve's wrist. "Let him drink it, if he wants to."

"Not yet," Steve says. All three of them freeze, and for just a second, Steve's face isn't soft and warm and beautiful, but is a panel of hard lines and sharp planes; his blue eyes sharpen to a gunmetal grey; energy _thrums_ from him, full to the brim with order— And then he smiles, the illusion broken, and Loki can see he doesn't remember the two words that have just tumbled from between his lips as he thoughtlessly passes the cup down the table, into the hands of Dice, who watches him for a moment before turning back to Astraea beside her.

"You should teach me some magic," Steve says conversationally. "I'd like that."

"Who says you're capable?" Loki replies, but when Steve's fingers reach for his own, Loki allows it, interlinking their fingers over the table. His hands are so warm, so much warmer than Loki's, and Loki sighs softly as he feels the play of Steve's thumb.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Mount Olympus** **  
** **2:59PM**

It isn't like being _drunk_ exactly. Steve's head swims, and he feels _invincible_ , but he hasn't had that much to drink and he knows it. It's more than that. His skin feels electrified, his every breath seeming to sing in his lungs, and he is hyperaware of the beat of his heart, the way his hair feels where it sprouts from his pores, of the _energy_ around him.

It makes him feel primed for anything, it makes him _emotional_ , and—

Maybe that's the problem. That's his downfall, he guesses.

Loki is laughing at a joke, slapping his own knee and leaning into the woman telling it, and Steve sees Hermes behind him. He hears the loud whinny in Loki's ear, sudden and sharp and loud, and he sees the sick way that Loki _stiffens_ , sees the desperate trauma in his eyes, and he moves without even thinking about it. How could he do that? How could he _dare_? Steve doesn't know if Hermes knows about Svaðilfari, but it's damn certain Hermes knows about traumatic response, and Steve cannot help the rage inside him.

Hermes chokes when Steve lifts him by the throat, his hand _squeezing_ , and Hermes is so _small_ in comparison to Steve – Steve could crush his throat just like this, could squeeze hard enough that the flesh gives way and the windpipe cracks and the bone— He comes to himself all at once, and he drops Hermes like a stone. Hermes stumbles on the very air – he's a Skywalker too, Steve can see – and he clutches at his own neck, looking at Steve with _rage_ burning in his eyes.

"How dare you—" Loki is between them in a heartbeat, and Hermes freezes where he had been clenching his hands into fists at his sides. There are so many eyes on them, and Steve can feel the burning ire of the gods on his back, knows he's misstepped, knows he's gone too far.

 _You're a mortal_ , he'd said, _you're not a person to them_ —

"I challenge any of you to touch him," Loki says lowly, and his voice thrums with a dangerous power. "You think music is the only talent I have hidden from you?" Steve can feel Loki's magic all over him, like a shield, like a cloak, feel it tingle hot and cold over his oversensitive skin. They're all looking at him with such _hatred_ , and yet none of them steps forward. None of them dare.

"He _attacked_ me," Hermes growls. The air is thick with a heavy, oppressive pressure as Loki steps forward, closer to him.

"In defence of me," Loki murmurs softly. "Would you fight _me_ , Hermes? Would you dare?" His voice is so dangerous. It digs into Steve's chest like ice, and Steve shivers, perversely taking a step closer instead of further away. "I am not like _you_ , brother: I am not small and weak, constrained to so simple a form. My cults stretch far and wide, and my believers are in the _billions_. I could crush you like an insect if I chose, Hermes. Don't you realise that?" Loki's hand is on Hermes' cheek, the touch featherlight and leaving frost in the wake of his fingers, and Steve can see that Hermes is _shivering_ , that he is shaking with fear. "Don't you realise that I could eat you whole?"

Steve stares as Loki grips at Hermes jaw, tighter now, and says, "I'm not the boy you could play with in youth… I'm so much more than that now. So much more dangerous."

"Loki," Steve says. "Don't." Loki laughs.

"You see? You see? This mortal _protects_ you… And you would scorn his gentleness." Loki lets go of Hermes, and Hermes stumbles back from him. It's like a switch is flipped: suddenly, Loki is smaller, and as godly as the others in the room, but not otherworldly so. The electric tension in the air fades into nothingness, and Steve's phone rings.

Swallowing, he brings it to his ear.

 _"Rogers? We need you on the ground,"_ Fury says. " _Can you bring Loki?"_ Steve glances to Loki, who shakes his head.

"No," he says. "I'm coming solo." Loki doesn't even let him say his goodbyes – that's probably for the best. Steve lands in their apartment in Brooklyn, dropping heavily into a chair, and he shudders.

Fear, desperate and sudden, digs its way through his skin. But Loki—

Loki will be fine.

 **August 4th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
11:52PM**

"How was it?" Steve asks. Loki is already lying back on the bed, and he smiles softly at Steve. There is wine stained on his lips, and there are spatters of paint on his neck and his jaw… Dionysus, Steve guesses. Him or Apollo.

"It was fine. Hermes avoided me, after you left. And after a few minutes of awkwardness, everyone decided it was easier to feign normality instead of to address all that had just occurred." Steve frowns, just slightly.

"Just like Asgard, then?"

"Oh, in a thousand ways," Loki confirms, and he gives a come-hither gesture. "To bed, please. If this is to be my last night with you for some weeks, I would enjoy it thoroughly."

"Thoroughly, huh?" Steve asks, slowly. "I'm kinda beat, Loki."

"Enjoyment is your heartbeat against my skin," Loki says softly, full of feeling. "No sex required." It makes Steve's chest _burn_ , and he slowly wriggles out of his clothes before dropping into bed beside him.

When Steve wakes in the morning, before dawn even breaks, Loki is already gone.

He is gone for two weeks and one day.


	31. The Chains We Break 9

**Day 3, The Budding  
Jötunheimr  
Fifth Hour**

To the day on the planet P'jar, known throughout the Nine Realms as Jötunheimr, there are forty hours. In perfect symmetry, to the planet P'jar, there are forty days to each month, of which there are four. First Winter, Second Winter, Winter's Wane… And the Budding.

This is the Jötunn new year. The days are long and bright and warm, and Loki stands on the shore of the Jut Sea, feeling the sun warm his skin. Turning on his heel, he looks out toward the sea, and in the distance he can see a few of the rocky, craggy islands that litter the Jut… On one of those islands, Loki raised his children with Angrboða.

On one of those islands, Angrboða died in the waves.

Inhaling slowly, Loki turns on his heels, and he begins to walk up the blue sands of Jötunheimr's beaches.

A hunting party sees him, and they all freeze, watching him, their nets held loose at their sides, some of them holding spears. Loki holds up his hands, the palms flat, and he drops to his knees on the ground. "What are you doing so far from home, little Æsir?" asks a Jötunn with silver chains in their stresses of silken hair, and Loki says nothing, focusing on the rock before him. It is slightly rough beneath his knees, a little uncomfortable and hard, but he won't be here long. They grab him by the hair and lift him clean off the ground: nearly twelve feet in height, they are tall indeed, and Loki says nothing, even now. His expression is impassive. "What are you doing here?" they demand, and Loki looks at them, slowly.

When he speaks, finally, frost forms on his lips, and he speaks the tongue of the Jötnar, although they had been using that of the Æsir: "Take me to the king." The Jötunn's eyes widen, and they turn their head to look at the hunting party, each of them displaying shock and surprise.

They slam their palm hard to the side of his head – not hard enough, not nearly hard enough, but he lets his head loll and his eyes drop closed, feigning unconsciousness although he is nowhere near. The Jötunn carries him on their back, slung over their shoulder like a goat to slaughter, and Loki hangs limp and still.

The trek into the Jötunn city is a long one. Jötnar are made to travel long distances, conserving energy and digesting it slowly over time, and Loki feels himself swing slightly as they move on. The Jötnar discuss him as they move, wondering what his name might be, wondering who he is. Perhaps he is a spy, one of them thinks, a Jötunn in disguise. Another call them ridiculous for even thinking such a thing.

Against the midback of the Jötunn that carries him, Loki hides his smile.

 **Day 3, The Budding  
Jötunheimr  
Eleventh Hour**

The Jötunn drops him like a sack of flour, and Loki lands on his feet, making the Jötunn grunt – in vague irritation, if not in surprise. Standing up a little taller, he glances around the cavernous hall he is in. They are beneath the ground, and Loki looks toward the walls. They are broad and hewn in the ice themselves, creating beautiful pillars that rise up like the pipes of some great organ – Loki can see the shifts and divots in the rock, see the opening to the pipes. What…?

This is not where they landed, a year and a half ago, when they invaded Jötunheimr…

Loki's fault. Isn't everything, in the end?

Looking about the room, he sees no great throne. He sees benches upon benches, tables upon tables, each hewn from hard ice, and yet scattered with Jötnar, here and there. These are elders, it seems to Loki, with silver-blue strands marking their black hair, with eyes amidst the lines upon their faces.

"Not many would choose to speak our tongue," says a voice behind him, and Loki remains facing away for a moment. The voice is deep and low, and he recognizes it – the voice of _Laufey_. Relief burns in Loki's chest, relief, relief! He is not dead. Laufey yet lives! Loki is dressed in brown leather travelling clothes, and his hair is tied up in a tight bun behind his head: from behind, he would be unrecognisable. "And no Æsir would wear a piercing in his ear."

"You're right," Loki says. The tongue of the Jötnar feels so natural to his tongue, and he reaches up to his lips, feeling the frost that forms upon them. And then he turns. Laufey's quietly genial expression, imperious but polite, hardens into a snarl. Loki looks at him, looks at the cloth about his loins and the silver chains that hang from his neck… He leans heavily upon a spear, and Loki can see the mess of scars that cuts him at the very centre of his chest – Father had aimed Gungnir directly between the protection of the twin rib cages. "Don't kill me."

"Why shouldn't I kill you?" Laufey asks, stepping forward, and Loki stumbles back from him, ripping his blouse open. "What are you _doing_ , little Æs—" Loki lets the illusion bleed from his skin. He makes quick work of the jerkin, throwing it aside and letting it land flat upon the icy floor. Laufey is staring at him, his lips parted, his expression full of fury, and Loki shifts slightly. His trousers rip as his thighs grow thicker, his calves, and he wears a skirt of silver cloth not similar to those that the Jötnar wear. The fabric he vanishes in a swirl of seiðr, and when he looks down at his hands, he sees that they are shaking.

"You were right," Loki repeats, and he looks at Laufey. Laufey's gaze is shifting over his body, looking at the marks that mar his face, the semi-circular, symmetrical marks upon his chest, as if he is reading text on a page. "Æsir don't wear piercings."

"You would—" Laufey inhales, slowly, shakily, and he clenches his hands into fists. "Where did you find that skin?"

"When I was here, when my brother and I came to Jötunheimr, a Jötunn grasped at my arm…" Loki remembers the fear he had felt, the desperate, revolting horror of it all – it had been sickening, to think he had it all planned out, a little sojourn to Jötunheimr, enough to show Father that Thor wasn't ready to be king, that his temper made him ill-fit for the purpose, and oh, how it had all gone wrong. Thor thrown down to Midgard; Loki revealed as a Jötunn; Loki mad, Loki deranged, Loki… "I asked my father. Demanded of him the truth. The truth, to start with, is that he is not my father, that he never was. He said that when he took the Casket of Ancient Winters from Jötunheimr, from the temple on the hill all those years ago, there was a child, an infant. Left there to die in the cold."

Laufey's expression is frozen. He looks at Loki with a strange hardness behind the red lens of his eyes, and Loki smiles, looking around the hall. He sees elders watching him, sees them look at him. Every eye in the room is fixated on Loki, and Loki sets his hands together, dragging his thumb slowly over the inside of his palm.

"But the thing is— I didn't know this, then, I didn't think of it, but a Jötunn child would not die in the cold. He found me during First Winter – even in the midst of Second Winter, majesty, no Jötunn child would die of _exposure_. But there is a Jötunn poetry book, of the knights of Jötunheimr. Many years ago, my wife would read it to our children—Yes, my wife, a Jötunn wife. Angrboða. She was an isolate, not a member of the city cabal."

"I remember her," Laufey says slowly. "She was bloodthirsty."

"Always," Loki says softly, fondly.

"She is dead?"

"Yes."

"We never…"

"I laid her to rest," Loki says quietly. "I'm a funeral priest, on another planet, a long way off. Our customs there are not so different to those of the Jötnar. The flesh is stripped from the bones, and the bones left to bleach in the sun… Instead of laid at the bottom of a sea crevasse. The flesh is boiled in acids instead of left for the animals to consume." Laufey's brow shifts, and he squints slightly where he looks at Loki. "The thing is… I don't know _much_ of Jötunn culture, I know bits and pieces, but— A passage in that book speaks of the child of a Jötunn knight that slept its very first night on the hill beside the temple, knowing nothing would disturb its slumber."

"It is an old custom," says an elder, and Loki turns to look at her. She is tall and broad-shouldered, with three rings of silver through her lip on the right side, and six studs of steel shining along the lines of her left cheek. "We introduce a child to the eight winds, to the gods themselves, that they might love it as their own, resting on a precipice beside the temple that can be reached by no beast. Will you come forward, child? Come closer to me."

"He is no Jötunn," Laufey says. "This is a trick. He is a shapechanger, this monstrous child—"

"Loptr was a shapechanger too," she says slowly. "Do you forget? Farbauti oft-complained of the way he shifted in her belly, taking form after form." Who is Loptr? What matters he? And yet— A shapechanger, shifting in his mother's belly…

"My sons did the same," Loki says quietly. In this, his Jötunn form, Loki is taller, nearly eight feet in his height, but he is a runt compared to all these Jötnar about him, each of whom are so much larger. The shortest of them is eleven feet. Her palms are gentle where they cup his cheeks, and Loki tilts his head back slightly, feeling her fingers against his jaw. "How many died?"

"When?" she asks.

"When the Bifrost was destroyed… How many?"

There is a long pause.

"You feel grief?" Laufey asks quietly. "You feel regret?"

"Of course," Loki whispers. "I was— I was half-mad. Desperate to prove to my father I was not the monster he believed me to be, I insisted if I could just _kill_ the monsters… But Jötnar aren't monsters, I'm not— My children are Jötnar. My wife." Loki closes his eyes, and he presses his lips loosely together. "How many?"

"You wielded the Casket of Ancient Winters, then," Laufey says quietly. "You felt its power beneath your palms. You used it. How did it feel?" Loki frowns, and he opens his eyes, turning to look at the king, but the Jötunn woman's hands grip tighter at his cheeks, holding them in place. She is examining his chest, at the lines that run down his neck, down toward his hips.

"It felt— Fine."

"Fine?" Laufey repeats. Loki thinks of it, thinks of the way the Casket of Ancient Winters had felt between his palms, thinks of the way its power had coursed through his veins. How comfortable it had felt, how _natural_ , how easy… Such a natural power it had felt against his seiðr, that glorious, icy cold. And yet so much power had brimmed beneath its surface, so much that Loki knew not how to wield.

"I could not command its full power."

"But you commanded some of it," the woman says quietly. "Laufey…"

"He can't be."

"He is." Loki breathes in, and then very shakily, he exhales.

"How many died?" he asks, softly. "When I wrought the Casket of Ancient Winters' power down upon Jötunheimr… How many of you did I murder?"

"None," the woman says softly. "We were each beneath the ground, and the Casket did naught but grow new glaciers where once stood the throne of the king. It is not a weapon, child – it is not made to destroy. It is made to create." Loki inhales, slowly and shakily, and he stares down at his blue hands.

Very slowly, he turns his head, he looks at Laufey. "Who am I?" he asks, in the tiniest voice he has ever used, his voice but a whisper on the wind. As if in answer, the winds above them, on the planet outside, pick up their pace, and they begin to howl, distantly. The pipes around the hall, catching the air outside, begin to emit such haunting, lilting music that Loki is left in awe, his mouth open. It fills the air, the sound these ice-made pipes make, and it echoes hollow in his chest, makes him shiver. He smells fresh ice and salt water, smells the very wind itself, and the music fills him to the brim—

It is as if invisible hands are supporting him as he slowly falls to the floor.

 **Unknown**

Loki floats in the midst of nothingness. Inhaling sharply, he tries to sit up, but succeeds only in spinning in the blank space on every side. Steadying himself with a burst of seiðr, he Skywalks upon blank nothingness, and he looks about him.

Space, _void_ , on every side, but it isn't black. That's—

Bizarre.

It's _white_ , brightest white, and—

"Prince Loptr," says a voice, and he turns his head slowly. The figure before him is ensconced in light, and although Loki can look directly at it, he cannot make out any distinct features. He can feel the _power_ clinging to that form's shape, however, and he knows it because he has just been surrounded by it.

Divinity.

"That is not my name," Loki says. More figures step forward, and Loki looks between each of them – all composed of the same bright light, impossible to make out, to recognise as anything but vague individuals: eight of them. _We introduce a child to the eight winds, to the gods themselves, that they might love it as their own…_

"That is who you are," the figure replies. "You do not know your own gods?"

"I _am_ my own god," Loki replies. Another of the figures laughs, and Loki inhales, slowly. Their power is meagre, compared to his own in the scheme of things, even as Loki, and perhaps they know this, for they keep their distance. He can feel them, semi-ethereal and not quite on this plane…

"You are Prince Loptr," says one of the figures, and he steps from the line. His form becomes a little bit more defined, the skin a deep, lurid purple. "You are the third child of Farbauti and Laufey, the third in line to the throne. Your parents thought you dead – they grieved for you." Loki sets his jaw, and he inhales slowly, looking the figure firmly in the face.

The skin is violet, but the eyes are the same red as his own, the protective lens securely settled over the shine of his eyes, and like Loki he has many marks upon his skin, symmetrical. Loki reaches up, feeling the four circular lines that touch upon his own face, and sees the mimicked in the figure's expression.

He smiles. "Yes, your facial markings mimic mine. Thus your name."

"My name?"

"I am your namesake: I am Loptr, of Destiny." Godly titles, divine titles, have power in them. All names have power – this is a fundamental truth of magic, and speaks to the obsession with names in the first place, for undoubtedly there are societies without names, without titles, but those societies _never_ possess even the barest spark of magic. Loki can feel the slight thrum of it, taste the title on his tongue.

 _Loptr of Destiny_.

"Loptr," Loki says, and he tastes the name as it feels to him, tastes it as it ascribes to _him_ , blank and unused, a clean slate, a new page in a book abandoned before it could be started. Loptr flicks his hair to the side, and Loki watches its cloud of silken blackness on the air, with no chains, and he sees Loptr's ear, which is curved and has a tip like a knife edge. There is a bar through its tip.

"Of Destiny," he repeats softly. "You see?"

"I see," Loki says.

"What made you want to pierce your ear, of all things? With a bar through the shell, of all places?" Loki thinks back, thinks back to the way that he had looked at himself in the mirror when first it had occurred to him, that he wished for a piercing, that he wanted… There are other piercings in Loptr's face. Two rings through the left eyebrow, a loop through the right side of his nose, a ring that catches at his lower lip, and… A bar. Through the tongue. All of pure silver.

Moving forward, Loptr puts out his hands, his palms up. Loki does not grasp them, but instead obeys the unspoken instruction: he puts out his own hands, mimicking the other's position. The Jötunn hand is pale and smooth, not as the hand of the Æsir: his fingertips are printless, and his palms have no lines.

"Destiny, to the Jötnar, is freedom," Loptr says. "There are no laid-out plans for us. Destiny simply means… _Future_."

"But it must be laid-out," Loki says. "Such is the way of the universe. The magic knows where it flows: so too does time." Loptr's expression changes slightly, and Loki sees the strange smile on his face, distant and yet full to the brim with affection. He smiles at Loki as if he _knows_ him.

"Ah, Loki," Loptr says softly. "Always do you see your experience, and think that you see the truth." Reaching out, Loptr touches his face, and Loki hears the ethereal, otherworldly sound of the ice organs in the throne hall once more.

 **Day 3, The Budding  
** **Jötunheimr  
Sixth Hour**

"Do you faint often, your highness?" asks the Jötunn elder as she touches Loki's cheek. He is laid back upon a bench of ice, and slowly the world is coming into focus once more. Above him, he can still hear the organs of the Jötunn thronehall singing their quiet ice song, and he inhales slowly.

"Now and then," he says, in a calm, mild tone. "What is your name?"

"Jorala," she says, and she presses her thumb and forefinger to the flesh above and below Loki's eye. Loki retracts the protective lens on the left side, letting her examine the grey-blue colour of his iris. "I delivered you." Loki inhales.

"Really?"

"Yes," Jorala murmurs. "See these marks…" She hovers her hands over Loki's arms, and at his hips, where symmetrical lines are scored into the very flesh, tracing the lines of some veins. "These come from Farbauti. And these…" She circles over the curving lines that rest over his chest, and over his belly. "Of Laufey. Facial markings are distinct, but other markings are a combination of the sire and bearer."

"And I was named for Loptr, because my facial markings mirror his," Loki murmurs, and he sits up from the bed. Beside him, Jorala tilts her head slightly.

"What do you know of our gods?"

"Naught," Loki says, and he glances up to the pipes of the organs. "You're not going to execute you?"

"We don't believe in execution," Laufey says. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, and he looks down at Loki for a long few moments, his lips twisted into a line, his expression focused. They are in a different chamber, now, a small room, and Loki is laid on a comfortable bed of hard ice, to the edge of the cell. It is perfectly square, carved into the very ice, and Loki looks up at the two Jötnar either side of him.

"Tell me the name," Loki says softly, "of the giant smith. He was near thirty feet tall, and he had—" Loki's mouth is dry. "He had a great horse, a stallion. Svaðilfari." Laufey stands in the doorway, and he tilts his chin back slightly, peering at Loki with uncertainty in his eyes.

"Why?" he asks.

"Does it matter?" Loki asks.

"What happened to him?" Laufey asks.

"He died. A long time ago, he died." Laufey's lip twitches into a ghost of a snarl, but then his expression changes, showing _pain_.

"He is Loptr, then?" Laufey demands, turning his head toward Jorala.

"He is Loptr," Jorala says. Laufey turns his gaze on Loki, and disgust shows in his eyes, disgust and some distant agony.

"We have much to discuss, you and I," Laufey says quietly. "We will walk together."

"You would trust me?"

"Why, have you plans to assassinate me?"

"No."

"Then we shall walk together."

 **August 5th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
10:43AM**

"Where's Loki?" Nat asks.

"Jötunheimr," Steve answers.

"Oh," Nat says. "That's his homeworld, right?" Steve nods. He thinks about it, of Loki on Jötunheimr, thinks of the _anxiety_ that had rolled off him in waves… But he'd had to go. Steve can respect that, respect the desperate sense that he had to do something, that he had to connect with them, the people he came from. "Thor said he was adopted. I kinda got the impression that's not how it went."

Steve wishes Sam was here. Guy's still out of action for the time being, and he should— He'll visit him, later today, see where he's laid up. What's up with him. Sam's a good guy, and Steve wants to see more of him, wants…

Christ knows.

"I don't think so either," Steve mutters. "I don't know, I haven't got the whole story out of him, about what happened."

"You asked?" Steve inhales, slowly, and he shifts the position of the shield on his back. Knowingly, Nat leans back against the glass wall of the elevator, and she nods slightly. "Right," she says. "He doesn't take well to being asked questions."

"No," Steve admits. There's a beat between them, and he says, "How's Sam?"

"He's—" Nat hesitates. Something shows in her eyes, but Steve can't quite be sure what it is. Her and Sam have only just started this on and off thing, only just started hanging out at _all_ , but— He's a good guy – Nat's good too, even if she doesn't think so. "Last mission, something went wrong. Badly wrong. He's messed up about it."

"I was gonna go see him, tonight," Steve says. "But if I shouldn't—"

"Nah," Nat says. "You should."

"And we should, uh, we should hang out. Us two." Nat gives him a sidelong glance. "What? You hang out with Baron."

"Barton's Barton," Nat says. "We have a rapport." Steve grins.

"You telling me we don't have a rapport?"

"Not like me and Barton." Steve laughs, quietly, and he feels a little of the uncertainty in his chest fade a little, feels it dislodge and melt away. "He'll be okay, you know," Nat says. "I don't know what— What the deal is there, but he can take care of himself."

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, I know." The lift comes to a stop in Nick's office, and Steve gestures for Nat to step out before him, following after her.

 **Day 3, The Budding  
** **Jötunheimr  
Seventh Hour**

They stand on a tall plateau, overlooking the great plains. The flat ice stretches on to the very horizon, and Loki drops to sit on the edge of the cliff, looking out over it all, seeing the way the ice reflects the slowly shifting sun – _Ifjit_. Like this, with the sun beginning its ascent further above the horizon, the skies are turned a deep violet, and it reflects off the shine of the ice.

"Tell me what happened," Laufey says. It is an order, and it grates on Loki, but—

He is reminded of Angrboða. He is reminded of what first made him _love_ her. Not her looks, nor her great form, her broad arms and thighs, her height, her strength; not her skill on the battlefield, nor her capability as a huntress. It was the way she _spoke_ to Loki: frank and sharp, never with more meaning in her words than what was on the surface.

Such is the way of the Jötnar.

"I never knew I was a Jötunn," Loki murmurs. "When my brother lead us here, to Jötunheimr, a Jötunn touched me, and my seiðr reacted… I did that as a child, you know. Most natural shapeshifters do: we match the textures we are exposed to, naturally attempt to mirror our surroundings, that which touches us. And my skin… _Changed_. When I touched the Casket of Ancient Winters, all was confirmed. My very biology shifted to the truth of the matter, for the seiðr my father had used to bind me in the Æsir form was cast to the four winds." A moment's pause. "The eight winds, I suppose."

He is aware of the dreadful silence. He feels it upon his bare skin like a prickly heat, and he exhales softly.

"And then?" Laufey prompts.

"I used Odin to lure you into Asgard. I only thought…" Loki trails off. "My whole life, I was told that I was Thor's equal, and yet… Thor was stronger than I, more handsome, more _manly_. Try as I might, I could never compare to him. They liked him better than I, favoured him, and I thought for the longest time that it must be some failing of _mine_ , but it wasn't. It was natural, in the end. The Æsir think of Jötnar as savages, as monsters. How could they treat me equally to their son, when they scarcely believed I was a person myself?" Loki sighs, feeling guilt burst in his belly. "I know they don't think that, not really. But I was mad when I discovered what… My entire life, I heard my brother, heard the palace guards, heard everybody speak of how eager they were to rid the universe of the scourge that is Jötunheimr. I _broke_. I can scarcely remember the hours in which I made those decisions, you know. I just remember my ragged throat, my tears, my confused desperation. It was like I scarcely inhabited my own body in those moments.

"Words cannot begin to describe," Loki says softly, "the regret I feel. I was _mad_ , I— It's difficult to describe. But I wasn't tethered to reality, I could scarcely think. I was blinded by grief, by pain, by inexplicable terror, and somehow, in my addled mind, I thought that if I could only destroy Jötunheimr, that it would all stop. That I wouldn't be one of you. That I would be _Loki_."

"It doesn't work like that," Laufey says.

"No," Loki mumbles. "I suppose it doesn't." He looks back to Laufey, who is leaning upon his spear. Laufey's expression is unreadable. "The Casket of Ancient Winters… Jorala said it was not meant for destruction. What does it do?"

"Everything," Laufey says. "It was made from the magical well that cores the sun Ifjit, where seiðr brims eternal, where the gods themselves make their home. It unlocks our most sacred halls, our Hall of the Dead, our great library; it builds great cities, repairs all…" Laufey gestures to the flat plains that stretch out before them. "Three thousand years ago, we lived above the ice, on these very plains, but it makes ill sense to build here, for the sun will melt our makings here in summer, when comes this time of year: the Budding. We cannot hunt as once we did, either, cannot—"

"It's a weapon," Loki says. "He said that they took it from you because of its power."

"A weapon?" Laufey laughs. The sound is like the grind of one glacier on another, harsh and high. "No. Not when kept on Jötunheimr."

"But you didn't keep it on Jötunheimr," Loki says. "They took it from you on Midgard, did they not? When you attacked the Midgardians, froze them in their places?"

"We were angry," Laufey says, helplessly.

"Angry? At what?"

"At Odin."

"For—"

"Murdering my child." Loki feels himself swallow, staring out over the violet-painted plains. "We tried sending missives. We tried sending _messengers_ to Asgard – messengers who were slaughtered where they stood. We tried everything. And so then we did something Odin could not ignore, could not throw aside: we threatened his position as a god. If we killed enough Midgardians, if we destroyed the power of his _believers_ …"

"That wasn't your plan," Loki says, sudden understanding coming to him, and he sees Laufey lean back slightly. Loki is on his feet in a moment, teetering on the very edge of the cliff. "No mortal would think of such a thing… This was the plan of your gods."

"Loptr, come away from the edge," Laufey says. "You'll fall."

"How did they come to you?" Loki asks softly. "In your dreams, perhaps? Have you soothsayers, here upon P'jar, who had visions?"

"Loptr, it is a steep drop, you will be dashed upon the ice." He actually looks a little frightened, and Loki is uncomfortable with the emotion it evokes in his chest, the discomfort, the— To see this stranger _concerned_ , however awkward that concern may be…

"It's a strange thing, to be a god," Loki says, laughing, and he feels the wind thrum against his skin, dragging over him like so many fingers. "The power one feels, over _destiny_ , over the future." The wind is rising. He can feel it rushing in his ears. "And imagine the jealousy a god might feel, commanding a planet like this one, and seeing it attacked by the god of some greater realm, easily thrown one way and that." It's a provocation. He intends it as one, and when the gust of wind catches him hard in the chest, throwing him off the edge, he is ready for it: he laughs loud, letting the wind carry his dark humour, and he leans on his back on the air itself.

The winds stop all at once, as quickly as the dropping of a coin.

Laufey is staring at Loki.

"I'm sorry," Loki says, standing to his feet on the air, and he takes a step back onto the cliff. "I don't mean to be—" He puts out his hands, mimicking the motion Loptr had made to him in the godly palace of Ifjit, and Laufey hesitates. Leaning the spear into the crook of his shoulder, however, he leans his weight into his strong side, and he puts his hands in Loki's. They are huge compared to Loki's own, and they are _gloriously_ cool to the touch. "I don't mean to be callous. It must be distressing, to have thought me dead all those years, and find that I—"

Laufey is silent. He looks down at Loki with impassiveness shining behind the red lenses of his eyes, and then— The lenses slip back, revealing the whites of Laufey's eyes. Laufey's irises are lilac, and they seem so _soft_ , in comparison to the rest of his face.

"How can I believe it?" Laufey asks, quietly. He does not move to grip Loki's hands, and instead their palms merely rest in mirror of each other, their fingers brushing one another's wrists. "How can I believe you, when you say you are my son?"

"Don't believe me," Loki says. "Believe my namesake, and his fellows." The winds _roar_ , making Laufey stumble, and Loki catches him before he can fall, keeping him standing. "See?"

"Laufey," says a voice from the edge of the plateau, at the top of the ice-hewn stairway. A Jötunn stands in place there, his hair a cascade of black waves that comes down to his very _hip_ , his hands clasped loosely before him. He wears black muslin that hangs in wisps at his elbows, and from his hips, and he wears chains that shine as steel in the morning light. Loki can see the marks on his arms – marks like his own. "Jorala says—"

"This is he," Laufey confirms quietly. "The eight winds themselves have said so." Farbauti stares at Loki, his hands clutched loosely over his belly, his fingers brushing the dark blue skin there, as if remembering, as if recalling how Loki had felt in his womb, as if imagining this man, this _adult_ , as but a babe once more.

"We thought you dead," Farbauti says, in a dread whisper.

"I'm sorry," Loki says. He doesn't know what else to say.

He needn't say anything, in the end. Farbauti throws his arms around him, _crushing_ him with the tightness of the hug, and Loki feels himself relax, in silence.

So, this is Jötunheimr.

These are the parents of Loptr.

This is the land that bore him.

 **August 5th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
1:35PM**

Steve rubs a napkin over his mouth. The bagel had been fine, and he's ready to just relax for another ten minutes before making it back to base to work on the papers he has to go through. It's all bureaucratic nonsense – mission reports, stuff like that, but it's bearable. They'll be deployed to a mission in China in a few days, and it's best to get this stuff out of the way.

"Steven," says a voice, and Steve feels his heart jump in his chest.

"Loki—"

He stops short.

The Ancient-Loki doesn't look out of place on a New York street. He wears a robe of deep burgundy, embroidered with a thousand silver-shining stars, and his hair is black with similar marks of silver, where the black is giving way to grey. Rings shine on his fingers and necklaces shift around his neck, and _yet_ , he seems like he belongs here.

Nobody even glances at him.

"Don't call me that, please," Steve says quietly. "Only he— Only he gets to call me that." He kind of expects the Ancient-Loki to argue with him. He expects to hear him gripe and grumble, point out that he _is_ Loki, but no such complaint comes. Loki merely pauses for a moment, then gives him a small, apologetic smile, and a polite bow of his head.

"I wondered if we might have a talk," the Ancient-Loki says delicately. "If you find yourself of a mood to. I will ensure you aren't late to your meeting, of course."

"Is something wrong?"

"No," the Ancient-Loki says. "Nothing's wrong. Loki is quite alright." Steve inhales, and he sets his napkin onto his plate, tapping the edge of the metal café table.

"I have to go with you?"

"Not at all," the Ancient-Loki says. It's weird. He's got so many wrinkles on his face, the crow's feet, the _laughter_ lines – will Loki have laughter lines, one day?

 _If he lives that long_ , says a dark voice. _And if he does, you won't be there to see it_.

"My apologies, Steve," the Ancient-Loki says. "I didn't mean to unsettle you – pray, forget I ever came here, I shan't disturb you again." He moves to turn away, but Steve stands from the table.

"No," Steve says. "No, I'll… We can talk. Take me where you took him: that'll be fine." The Ancient-Loki nods his head, and then he offers his arm. After a moment, Steve takes it, feeling awkwardly like a dance partner at some kinda debutante ball…

This is a bad idea. Or maybe it's not.

Who's to say?

Brooklyn fades out from underneath him, and he lets himself lean into the dimensional transitway.


End file.
